And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs
by words without
Summary: After an attack on their village leaves them orphaned and desperate, Malik and Kadar become Al Mualim's newest pupils. Altair, the master's star novice, is less than thrilled, but all Malik cares about is keeping his little brother safe... -Altair/Malik-
1. Prologue

AN: This is something I've wanted to write for a while. The idea actually struck me midway through working on _Battle Of Eagles_ (leaving me to refer to it as boe2 when it is emphatically _not_ a continuation of that story.) This is preAC1, and since BOE takes place more or less towards the end of the game, I figure that writing these two massive things covers just about all the game territory I want to cover. I suppose I could still write postAC1, but then I'd have to figure out what to do with Maria.

Point being, this is probably the last huge fic I'll write for AC1. Probably. So I'm gonna go all out, make it long and dramatic and indulge all my silly little fantard fantasies. Oh, if only they'd make another AC game with Altair...

The usual warnings: violence, language, occasional fanservice. Some religious themes. Also, where BOE was relatively subtle in regards to its paring, this fic will not bother to hide its slashy tendencies. I have grown bored with subtlety. There is a (very) strong chance of an R-rated scene or two, later on. I'm not sure what I'm doing with that ratingwise, as I really don't want to have to bump the whole fic to an M rating when only a couple of chapters involve sex. We'll see. Either way, I'll post an author's-note-warning before the fun stuff starts.

Please review! Feel free to point out any inconsistencies, as I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible. Also, google _assures_ me that '_sayyid_' is Arabic for 'mister'. I hope google hasn't lied, because I really don't want to go back and fix that a thousand times over.

* * *

_"Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor.  
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?"_

_**Prologue: Honor Guard**_

It is, Malik A-Sayf knows, an honor to be chosen to guard the flocks. An honor, and a responsibility, and something he can be trusted with now that he is ten. Malik has been ten for three whole days now, and is still flush with the pride of being an adult (or close to one, anyway).

His father, not usually one for emotion, had clasped him to his chest and recited a verse from the Quran which spoke of strength and honor and the love of a parent for his sons. His mother had bought him new robes and new shoes, had made him a spicy stew that she knew he loved. Kadar had stared after him in naked, honest awe.

Malik lowers himself to the ground, yearning to lean back against the grass and sleep through the brutal Syrian summer heat. He is surrounded by brown-green fields. In the distance there are the mountains; closer by, there are the sheep. Tucked away in the nearest valley is the village. And currently trudging up the hill Malik rests on is—

"Kadar?" Instantly, Malik sits up straighter. It is an honor to watch the sheep, especially all by himself. Only little boys would want to nap instead of fulfilling their duty.

Kadar would definitely fall asleep and let the sheep wander off the nearest cliff. Sheep aren't very bright, but—Malik decides now—it takes a wise person with years of experience to understand how to manage an entire flock on his own. Someone who is ten, for instance.

Malik rises to his feet to meet his brother, noting that the younger boy is lugging a small basket with both hands. "Lunch?" he calls out, hopefully. Even ten year old almost-adults need to eat.

"Mother made it for you," Kadar confirms, sounding out of breath but pleased. His brown hair, lighter than Malik's black and more tousled, spills across his eyes, which are the exact dark shade and shape as those of his older brother. "I brought it all the way here an' I didn't spill or anything."

Malik gives his brother a tolerant smile. Kadar is just a little kid, only six, but he's eager to please and doesn't usually get in the way.

"So…" Kadar plunks down, staring in an obvious way at the basket. His shoes, Malik notes, are already filthy: _someone's been playing by the stream even though I told him not to._ "Are you having fun?"

Malik sits down as well, and opens the basket. Kadar's ravenous expression as he pulls out a loaf of bread makes him smile, so he breaks off a chunk and hands it to him. His brother beams and crams half of it in his mouth in one go.

"Chew slower," Malik orders.

"Mmph." Kadar swallows. "Well? Are you? Is it exciting?"

Malik considers. So far, shepherding has consisted of herding the sheep to the right field, sitting around to make sure the sheep don't wander into the wrong field, and then just sitting around. But Kadar is looking at him so eagerly…

"I saw a snake," he says solemnly. This is true. "It was black and fat and hissed at me." This is mostly true. "I smushed its head in with my stick." This did not actually happen, but Kadar's eyes go huge with amazement, and it isn't really a _lie_. Just a…a not-truth. There _was_ a snake.

"A whole snake?" Kadar asks. "How big?"

"Huge. It might've eaten one of the sheep if I wasn't there to protect it."

"Wow." Kadar leans back with a heavy sigh. "I can't wait 'till I get to watch the herd. I'll fight off snakes, and—and—wolves—"

"Mm." Malik grins down at his younger brother. "And the village will be so proud of you they'll put up a statue and you'll be famous."

"An' I'll be rich and important. I'll marry like six wives!"

"Allah only lets you have four," Malik reminds him. Kadar is not deterred.

"Then you can have the other two. An' I'll build a palace for Mother and Father, an' you can live there too, and…"

Malik throws another hunk of bread at him. "First you have to fight off the wolves, brother."

"I will!" Kadar, inspired, leaps to his feet and lunges at imaginary enemies. Malik watches him and shakes his head.

Children.

_-i-_

Eventually Kadar tires himself out and begins the trudge back to the village, where no doubt their mother will scold him for taking too long. It's later in the day, and quiet…now there's no one for Malik to talk to but the sheep.

He shivers a bit. Being a shepherd is lonely. Longing hits him, sudden and sharp: until now he's always helped his father in the fields, and that was never lonely. His father's quiet presence was always comforting, no matter how hard the work. And if he grew too tired or too bored, he could just run back to the house.

But Malik is a shepherd now. He's a man, not a child, and men (he has been told) have duties to the world.

_You are an older brother now. You must never forget your responsibilities as the eldest. _

Strange, how used he's become to Kadar. Malik, sitting cross-legged in the grass, bored now that the novelty of shepherding has worn off, frowns in thought as he considers his younger brother. It'd been forever ago, but he can still remember being four and bewildered, forbidden from entering his own house, forced to stand outside with his father and some other men while village women darted in and out with bloody hands.

"Allah favors you," the men had told his father. "Two sons. A great honor. They'll be your pride in life."

Malik remembers how his father said nothing, just crossed his arms and looked pleased; he remembers wondering at that, at how his father let an opportunity to brag pass quietly by. He remembers being proud, in some strange way. Most other men would have crowed with smug joy. _Sayyid_ Baqir, for instance, the village loudmouth, who was said to have beaten his wife when she bore him a third daughter. _He'd_ be bragging about sons until he died of old age.

_Maybe_, Malik thinks now, _that's why Allah never gave him any._

Still, there'd been a lot that four year old Malik hadn't understood at the time. Why his mother grew so big her robes grew tight, and then suddenly shrank again. Why one of the villagers knelt down in front of him, during that confusing day, and told him seriously that, "You should be grateful for what your family has been given. Everything will change for you now."

Malik remembers being finally led into the house by his father, being shown the squirming, whining bundle in his mother's arms. His father had taken that bundle and, almost solemnly, given it—him—to Malik. Malik had held his little brother, startled at how light he was, as his parents exchanged tired smiles.

"Malik," his father had said. He spoke gravely, and in Malik's arms the baby stared upwards and grew silent. "This is your younger brother. You must never forget that. He is your responsibility. As the older son, it is your job to help keep him safe. This is your duty. Allah Himself has willed it so."

Malik watched the baby—his brother? What did that mean?—and felt a tingle down his spine. "My brother," he whispered. The words, though he did not understand them, were strong.

"What two brothers have, no one else can understand," his father continued. "And no one can take it away. You must always remember that bond. You'll need to be strong for him. Sometimes it will be hard."

Hard? At four, Malik didn't have much of a concept of _hard_. For no reason at all, the Older Brother felt scared, and his father must have noticed for his tone softened and he smiled. "Don't worry. I know you are strong enough. Protect Kadar and Allah will bless you, all your life."

Malik wasn't sure what his father meant at four, and he still isn't sure at ten. But these are his responsibilities…surely protecting a younger brother is no harder than protecting a flock of sheep. Even if the younger brother _is_ only six.

_-i-_

Malik returns to the village that evening, fresh with the knowledge that the sheep are safe, due entirely to his wisdom. His father will be so proud. But as he starts down the dirt path that leads from the sheep pen to his home, he notices Kadar running towards him. There's a spurt of disappointment; Malik rarely bothers to lie to himself, and so he acknowledges the let-down. It should be his father coming down the path, to shower his eldest with quiet approval.

Then again, Kadar isn't a bad second choice. He'll be just as proud. Just not as quiet.

"Are the sheep safe? Did you see any more snakes? Were there wolves? Some men from the village are eating with us tonight so Mother says you hafta wash up careful before you come inside. Did the wolves get the sheep? I bet you fought them off, right, you definitely kept them all away. And Mother told me to make sure you used the well water for washing and not for spilling on the ground 'cause that's what boys usually do 'cause they hate washing up but you're not really a boy anymore are you? I wanna come visit you again tomorrow, Brother, 'cause you get to fight with wolves."

Kadar says this all very fast. Malik pauses.

"Village men are over again?" he asks as the two brothers fall into step together. The fading sun casts long shadows, and a slight breeze catches at the worn hems of their tunics. They leave light footprints, scuffing the sand as they walk.

Their shadows merge together and pull apart. Again and again, they are attached.

"Yah," Kadar says. "_Sayyid_ Hamid. And _Sayyid_ Maram and his nephew."

"I wonder what they want."

"Just to talk to Father, I guess." Kadar wrinkles his nose. "Oh, and _Sayyid_ Baqir is here again. Why does he hafta come over so much, Malik?"

Malik shrugs. "'Because Father still lets him. Khalil told me last week that his father won't even invite Baqir inside anymore, because he's arrogant and lies to everyone's face."

"He should stay at home," Kadar grumbles, folding his arms across his bony chest. "Every time he comes over he asks for lots of food and doesn't even thank Mother when she brings it. And he smokes a lot, makes me cough."

"He's afraid to eat at his house," Malik says. "He thinks his wife is gonna…gonna send him to his virgins early."

"Oh." The younger boy is silent a moment. "What does that mean?"

Malik shrugs. "I dunno. Heard Mother and Father talking."

(And technically he hadn't been meant to hear that conversation, but he'd been right there, and surely it wasn't disobeying your parents to listen after being told not to if you just happened to be lingering outside the front door while your parents talked inside?

Even if you _had_ been told to go to the stream and stay there a while.)

"I think it involves poison," Malik offers after a moment. "He's afraid to eat his wife's food."

"'Cause it'll turn him into a virgin?" Kadar frowns. "Malik, what's a virgin?"

_This_ their father has explained to Malik, in great detail. The whole process sounds rather grim, and in Malik's personal opinion not very necessary. Anyway, it's nothing for Kadar to know.

"There's the house," he says, to change the subject. "Race you."

"You're gonna win," Kadar groans, but he looks thrilled nonetheless. "I can't ever beat you, Brother."

"Nope," says Malik, and takes off running.

_-i-_

Because there are guests and because he is a man, Malik resists splashing his brother at the well behind their house. The small, three room structure sits just far enough away from the village itself to need a closer water source. But the village is small, and the houses scattered; its people are used to long distances, and so it isn't rare to find guests over for dinner at the A-Sayf household. Men will travel miles for conversation, Malik's father often says.

(It's more than conversation, though. There isn't a villager around who hasn't asked his father for advice at least once. Even _Sayyid_ Murtada, the village's richest man, has been by—and Murtada has three wives and five horses! Malik had been there to witness the man complain about the son who insisted on marrying some local girl he was in love with, rather than the girl chosen by his parents. He'd never actually asked a question, and Malik's father had mused on a solution without ever actually naming it as such…

But a week later Murtada announced his son's marriage, and suddenly the A-Sayf herd of sheep seemed several heads thicker than before.)

Still, such a bother that there have to be guests tonight of all nights. Now Malik will have to be respectful, and silent, and most importantly not around. He and Kadar will be paraded past the guests as visual bragging rights for their father, and then sent into another room to eat with their mother. Malik itches to stay in the main room, to announce to his father and the others his success at shepherding. He won't be loud, or arrogant: he will simply sit down amongst the men, as if it were any other day, and his strength will show in his newly calloused hands.

And should the others ask him of his day—what of the sheep? they will ask. What of the herd?—then he will smile, and shrug, and admit that he does not mean to brag, but all the animals are alive and a great many snakes came to harm. His father will give him that slight, warm smile that means everything, and they will all nod their heads knowingly: faced as they all are with the work of men.

"Malik, come on." Kadar stands by the doorway, eager to slip inside but not so eager that he would leave his brother behind. "I'm hungry."

"I'm coming," Malik sighs. How frustrating it is to be ten and yet a child!

They go inside, entering the front room, where their father and the guests are sitting cross-legged on cushions around plates and dishes, dinner in the process of being brought out. Their father smiles when he sees them, a smile half-hidden by his beard.

"There they are," he says, eyes twinkling. "You two are late."

Malik murmurs an apology, which is drowned out by Kadar's protesting, "But there were wolves!" The older brother grabs the younger brother by the wrist and pulls him into the proper bow, mouthing the proper, respectful greetings for the villagers. Then he drags Kadar into the second room, where their mother is bent over the fireplace.

She turns around when she hears them come in. Her robes are long and heavy, and sweat beads her face. A few stray hairs are plastered to her forehead, despite how tightly her brown headscarf is tied. She smiles.

"There you two are. I send one brother to find the other brother and they both end up lost."

"Sorry, Mother." Malik goes over to her, taking the heavy pot off the flames before she can grab it. His tired arms protest, but he ignores them and hoists the pot higher. "Let me take this in for you."

"So helpful," his mother says. "Why is it you never make such offers when there's no one here but your father and I?" She glances over her shoulder at Kadar, who's yawning from his stance against the wall. "That tunic is filthy. Make sure you wear your other one tomorrow."

Kadar bobs his head. "I'm hungry."

"Of course." She turns back to Malik. "Take that to the next room," she says to him. "Then come back in and we'll eat. Then bed."

Malik considers the pot in his hands, almost but not quite pouting. His mother notices his hesitation and sighs.

"What is wrong, exactly?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, and then adds slowly, "I'm just tired from herding all those sheep…"

"Yes, I know. My son is almost a man already." Malik is alarmed to see his mother's eyes misting over. "Ah, just an infant yesterday and now you're so strong and dependable. Both my sons are growing fast. Soon they'll be married and have their own children. Then will they even remember their mother?"

"I'm going to take the pot in now," he says hastily. This is not exactly the type of admiration he's been looking for.

As he hurries back into the front room the conversation he's walked into dies. The village men all glance in his direction, and he braces himself for the usual round of compliments, meant for his father's sake rather than his own. Sure enough…

"Nice to see your boy still helping his mother," the man on his right says in a gravely voice. "My own sons are too lazy to offer, even."

An older man across the circle shakes his head. "Don't be so harsh on them," he says softly. His beard is almost completely white and he strokes it when he talks. "Just having sons is a blessing, Hamid."

A voiceless murmur of agreement spreads through the group, half out of pity. Maram's wife never bore any children, and he could never afford to take another one; he'd been told to divorce her and marry someone more fruitful, but refused. Malik asked his mother once why Maram was willing to stay without heirs for the sake of his wife, but all she would say was that his marriage hadn't been arranged. Malik still isn't sure what she'd meant.

Hamid _tsks_. "You'll be given that blessing one of these days," he says. "Soon you'll have a whole brood of children, running you ragged."

"Not me," Maram says with a laugh. "I'm too old. If Allah meant to give me children He would have done so twenty years ago." He shifts position on his cushion. "Anyway, I have Hassan here," he adds, and the scruffy teenager sitting beside him flushes and squirms. "He's been just as much of a son. If I'd had my own I couldn't have afforded to take him in, eh?"

"Allah is wise," Hamid agrees. "After all, He gave our gracious host two obedient children, and no one deserves them more."

Malik wants to protest—he _isn't_ a child—but keeps his mouth shut. It isn't his place to speak, even if they _are_ talking about him. He takes his time ladling out broth from the pot, giving each man a carefully measured portion. Once he's done he'll have to go back and eat with his mother and brother, like a child or a girl.

Maram reaches over and takes his bowl with a sigh and a nod of gratitude. But when Malik hands the bowl to the man on his right, he gets only an insincere smile.

"You're too old for women's work," _Sayyid_ Baqir says. His eyes are black and narrow, his chin darkened with stubble. "Nine year olds should act more like men."

"I'm ten," Malik mumbles. Everything out of Baqir's mouth is a back-handed compliment. _Why does Father keep letting him in?_

"Hah? Then my point is even stronger." Baqir leans back, eyeing Malik curiously. "Ten years old? Almost ready to get married!" The other men echo his chortles with strained laughter of their own.

"Not quite yet," says Malik's father. "I think we'll wait a few years."

Not for the first time, Malik is both impressed by and proud of his father. The man sits tall in his robes, his brown beard adding a sense of strength to his face. When he speaks, no matter what he speaks, the room falls silent.

This, Malik knows, is his heritage. Someday he will be expected to be just as strong, just as brave, just as wise. The thought is a scary one: his father's role is so great. How can Malik expect to fill it, when he struggles just to keep Kadar entertained?

Head cloudy with admiration, he straightens and moves for the door. But before he can leave the circle of men his father speaks, in his smooth, deep voice: "Sit and stay with us a while, my son. Have something to eat."

And this is so unexpected Malik's mouth drops open. To be invited to eat with his father-! He stares for so long, stunned, that his father laughs into his beard.

"_Sit_, Malik."

And Malik, dazed and delighted and already picturing how he will describe his victory to Kadar, stumbles over to the nearest pillow and folds shaking legs underneath him. The village men murmur fresh greetings, less condescending this time than a few moments ago: he is one of them, finally. An adult, with all the responsibilities and all the burdens.

Not even Baqir's brown-toothed sneer can ruin the euphoria. "Joining us, are you? So you're not such a little boy."

"Malik watched the flocks today," his father says, and the rest of the men nod. Malik glows. The conversation turns to other matters, the men chatting as they eat (Baqir in particular keeps talking with his mouth full). Malik stays quiet, watching, too excited to focus on his food. He's lived in this house all his life, he's sat in the front room countless times, and yet now it seems changed. The dirt walls, the faded pillows, the small window—nothing has changed, but everything is so _new_. There's a general shuffle of bowls and platters, and then _Sayyid_ Maram leans back with a heavy sigh.

"A good meal," he says. His nephew nods.

"Your wife knows how to cook," Baqir agrees, somehow turning compliment into complaint. "Everything mine makes tastes like mud. What's the use of a woman who can't even cook?"

"There are other uses," Hamid says, and grins. Malik, after a thoughtful moment, grins back.

"Bah," says Baqir. "She isn't so good at _that_, either."

"Always you complain about your wife. Are our lives so boring that there is nothing else to talk about?"

"So, talk," Baqir starts to say, but his nastiness is buried by Malik's father, who shakes his head.

"There is nothing wrong with boring lives," he says. "We're fortunate to have them." The rest of the men grow quiet; Malik looks at his father, sensing the somber change in mood. "We should be grateful that no excitement has come to this village."

"It's getting bad," Hamid says, slowly. "More and more of those bastards on the roads every day."

Malik, despite the serious words, is distracted by mild awe. Hamid, a merchant, travels to larger villages regularly for merchandise. He even goes to the great city Damascus on occasion: a long journey, and a city beyond imagination. Malik, on the other hand, has been to a neighboring village only once, so long ago that he barely remembers the trip. In all likelihood he will never go far from his home. He will certainly never see a city as immense as Damascus, though sometimes at night he lies awake, filled with questions, with strange longings for lands he'll never know.

"That's why my wife stays in the house," Baqir is saying when Malik submerges from his thoughts again. "You know what they do when they see our women."

"But the Templars haven't reached this far," Hassan protests. "Our roads are safe."

"I heard a village three hours away was attacked," his uncle says. "These are dangerous times. Caution is a good thing to have."

Malik frowns to himself. _Templars_. He isn't sure who they are, exactly, or why they're here—Christian soldiers, his mother said once, out to claim Muslim lands for their faraway king. Violent men, who for years now have roamed the countryside, burning and killing as they will. Malik is too young to remember the last great battle (and praise be to Allah for that, his mother said), which left the Holy City of Jerusalem near ruin but still in the hands of the Faithful. Not that he will ever see Jerusalem, either…

But though that battle left both sides too weak for outright conflict, the Templars did not leave. Malik has grown up with the threat of bored, lost Templar soldiers, eager to prey on travelers and defenseless women out alone.

"Why are they attacking villages?" he asks now. "I thought there weren't many of them left."

"More're coming," Hamid says. "Their king is getting ready for another war. He wants Jerusalem real badly, the louse."

"It isn't just the king," Maram says. "They think their god told them to take our lands."

"Bah," Baqir grunts again. "What god? They worship the Devil."

Hassan nods, eagerly. "They're all cowards and infidels," he says. "If they want another war we should give it to them. Allah will wipe all of them out, and then we won't have to worry about their soulless bandits blocking the roads."

"If war comes, it won't just come to Jerusalem." Malik's father looks stern. "The violence will spread everywhere. Even here. We should hope for peace. If it is Allah's will, the bloodshed will pass us by and fade away."

"But they're the enemy…!" Hassan argues. "It would be honorable to spill their blood!"

"Careful, nephew," his uncle scolds, but gently. "Or it will be your blood that's spilled. No, our host is right. No good can come out of another battle in Jerusalem." The old man speaks with quiet confidence, and Malik finds himself nodding along in agreement. "Jerusalem will always be ours, Allah willing. What's best for our village is to keep out of the mess. The Christians will leave eventually. They have their own lands."

He shrugs. "They are infidels, but not madmen. When they realize they will never steal the Holy City, they will go. Meanwhile our families will be safe if we can avoid the fray."

"Unless they attack our village," Baqir says with the smallest of sneers. Malik feels a flash of anger; he has to look down at the bowl in his lap to keep his expression from being seen. Surely saying such evil invites it in!

But his father is unruffled. "They won't. This place is too remote, and too poor. What would they gain by attacking here? We have no riches to entice their greed."

"Men have killed for less."

"We are safe here. The Prophet, peace upon Him, will not betray His faithful."

Baqir falls silent, not bothering to hide his glower. Malik feels proud all over again. His father is right—his father is always right. There is no reason to fear. The conversation twists away to other things, lasting long into the night; he is half-asleep by the time the last of the guests leaves. He drags himself on legs made weary by the long day to the back room, where his brother is already sleeping on his mat. The next day will start at dawn, and Malik knows that, but still he lies awake for what feels like hours, somehow too drained for sleep. He stares into the darkness, and considers the business of being a man.

As finally he slides into slumber, Malik A-Sayf decides that his is a blessed life, an honored one he is grateful to own.

* * *

AN: Quote is from _On Death_ by Khalil Gibran. Story title is also from Gibran's lovely poetry.

In case you haven't realized, my entire reason for writing this fic is "d'aaaw Kadar". It was inspired by the fantastic piece 'Reflection' by daltucia ( daltucia .deviantart gallery/ 24606514#/ d2lwk9t minus the spaces), as well as everything doubleleaf has ever drawn, ever.

7/4/12: minor edits


	2. Part One: Chapter One

AN: There might be a delay between this chapter and the next. I like to always have a barrier between chapters posted and chapters being written, so while I'm done with the third chapter I'd like to have the fourth done before I post next. Otherwise my updates have a tendency to take months.

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_**Night and the Mounted Men**_

The heat presses Malik to the ground. He sits with his back against a rock, surrounded on all sides by sheep, and tries not to feel the strength of the sun against his shoulders. Shepherding is still kind of exciting—but it was more exciting a month ago, when it was new. Now it's becoming a thing dangerously close to drudgery.

And that isn't right. He's a farmer's son. His life lies out in front of him, and it is the same life his father had. His father, who is so wise and so content. His father, who everyone says has been blessed by Allah. How can Malik be bored by the world that he has always known, the world that his father has formed for him? What else _is_ there? What else could he possibly want?

But he sits here now, at the top of a hill, staring at the path that leads back towards the village, and he is doing a man's job, and he is bored. And thirsty. And he wants to—to—

To what?

"Damascus," he says aloud. "I want to go there." _Sayyid_ Hamid, the merchant, had been at dinner again yesterday, his last before setting out on a month-long trip to the far-away city. At Malik's shy request Hamid had done his best to describe Damascus and its beauty (tall, sand-colored buildings rising out of roads caked with white stone), but finally he'd given up, with an embarrassed shrug. No words to describe a city where thousands swam together, no words to describe such a sea.

There are three roads in Malik's village, and he knows all the people who travel them. He recognizes every house. Murtada the rich man is as familiar to him as the blind beggar man who sits by the mosque and sings during evening prayer. Only ten—only just a man—and he knows it all, already.

"In Damascus," Hamid had said, "There are great mosques. You think that little shed we have is anything? Hah! Wait 'till you've seen a proper minaret tower. They scratch at the sky!"

_That_ is what Malik wants: sky-scratching towers. It shouldn't even be possible, but it is, and he wants to convince himself that such marvels exist. Instead he has evidence only of sheep. His is a good life, he knows: hadn't he decided as much last month? He is obedient towards the duties of grown men. He knows what is expected of him, and he does not falter at those tasks. But Malik is ten now, and still the world around him has not changed.

He stares at the closest sheep. It stares back.

"Where's Kadar with lunch?" he asks it. "I'm gonna start bringing my own. He's always late." The sheep does not seem interested, but Malik isn't deterred. Even at ten he ends up ignored by most other adults, and the ones who do bother talking to him are usually trying to arrange his marriage.

Marriage. Ugh.

"I know I have to get married," he informs the sheep, "but then I'll have to have kids. And then…" _And then what_ dies unspoken on his tongue. And then what? And then he'll be like his father—if he's fortunate—and his own children will turn into men, and he'll never have _gone_ or _seen_ or _done_.

"I'm not a child anymore," he whispers. "And I'm glad. But no one ever told me being a man would be so _similar_ all the time. I mean, Kadar can goof off and no one gets mad at him…" He sighs. "But Kadar's just a child. He doesn't have to worry about stuff like us adults do. Plus, even when he's ten I'll still have to watch out for him. He's so stupid sometimes. Like, last week he fell into a stream. I don't even know where he _found_ a stream deep enough in this heat, but he found it and fell in. Came back soaking wet, Mother was really upset."

Malik tilts his head, considering. "I don't mind watching him, though," he says. "Older brothers should be expected to keep little brothers safe, 'specially since I've only got the one. Father always says that, and he's always right."

The sheep _baas_ an answer and wanders away, back down the hill. Malik shrugs. A moment later there's a thin shriek and he is bolting, leaving deep footprints in the dirt before he remembers getting to his feet. The air is heavy and sweat pricks at his brow, but he is aware only of the rapid beat of his pulse as he runs. Kadar is at the foot of the hill, flustered and indignant; there's a small basket on the ground before him, and its contents are being methodically chewed by something white and fluffy.

Malik skids to a stop. Kadar spots him and bellows, "It nearly knocked me _over_! And it's eating your lunch."

"Did you get attacked by a sheep?"

"I threw a rock at it but it wouldn't _go_."

"I thought you were being attacked by a Templar or something!"

"Mother says that if you see a Templar you're suppos'ta run right home," Kadar says. "Not fight him."

"I wasn't gonna fight him. I was just gonna get you first."

"Wouldn't you have to fight him to get me?"

Malik grins. "You'd probably have already killed him with your deadly rock throwing."

"Nuh uh. You'd have to kill him, Brother. You're ten so you prob'ly could." Kadar makes a face at the offending sheep as it finally drifts away. "Now what? That was both of our lunches an' Mother will get mad if we tell her."

"Mad at the sheep, maybe." Malik gives his brother a gentle push up the hill. "Keep me company for a while, then I'll walk back with you a little early and we'll see if there's anything left over. Ok?"

"Ok." Kadar ambles along, chattering about sheep and rocks and lunch-stealing Templars. Malik is only half-listening; he really _is_ hungry, but his meal is currently being digested by livestock. Stupid, greedy sheep.

"—plars, right, Brother?"

Malik blinks, looks down at Kadar. "What?"

"Our village doesn't have Templars. Right?" Kadar spots the rock Malik was reclining against earlier and plops himself next to it. He saves the rock itself for his older brother, though, and Malik feels rather important as he settles himself down. "I heard Father talking to _Sayyid_ Baqir last night…"

Malik reaches out and cuffs his brother against the side of his head, lightly. "You weren't supposed to be listening to that."

Kadar is undaunted. "But I wanted to know what you were talking about. You're so lucky that you get to eat with Father now." He hesitates. "So, there's no Templars, right?"

"Not around here."

"Oh. 'Cause Baqir was saying how he saw them less than an hour away…"

"Why would Baqir know what was going on an hour away? He never leaves that ugly house of his except to bother Father with more complaints."

"He said he was looking for more land for his sheep." Kadar fiddles with the edge of his tunic—the frayed edge, Malik notes, which means he's still wearing his old, raggedy shirt. "He saw a bunch of heathen soldiers marching towards him so he hid behind a rock. They smelled bad."

"Baqir just likes to talk. He probably saw some old drunk staggering along and scared himself." Malik rolls his eyes. "I wasn't listening to him at all last night. And if you're gonna eavesdrop, you should pick someone worth eavesdropping on."

Kadar nods solemnly. "I'll remember that." He yawns. "You're so smart, Brother. When I get to eat with Father I want to be…to be that smart too…"

"Don't worry about Templars," the older brother says, even as Kadar curls himself up and falls into a doze beside the rock. "I won't let even a thousand soldiers get to you."

There is an answering _baa_ from somewhere behind him, but Malik has had his fill of sheep.

_-i-_

Hunger makes Malik irritable as he leads brother and livestock back towards home. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting odd shadows. The thought of dinner propels him forward, but he's worn out from the long day and his feet drag in the dirt. Behind him, Kadar is quiet for once, lost in his own fatigue. Finally the sheep enclosure comes into view, and Malik begins to walk faster.

"Tell Mother I'm coming," he tells his brother. "I just have to make sure the sheep are safe." Kadar bobs his head and heads off.

It doesn't normally take too long to secure the herd at the end of the day, but even so Malik rushes the job: hunger makes him sloppy, but he's too grumpy right now to care. He pulls the fence door to the enclosure shut, not bothering with his usual check to make sure the ancient wood is steady. A quick count to make sure all the sheep are there and he's half-running, stomach rumbling at the thought of warm bread.

Kadar is waiting for him, lingering by the front door with his arms crossed and his face pushed into a confused pout. Malik is hungry enough that he almost misses his brother's frown.

"Well? Go inside," he says impatiently. "You're blocking the door—"

"No one's in there," Kadar announces. "I checked each room. An' there's no dinner, either."

"What do you mean, no one's in there? Where else would they be?" Malik pushes past and pokes his head inside. The front room is dark, and empty; so are the other rooms, he sees a moment later. Shadows linger in the corners, undisturbed. Kadar was right: their parents aren't home.

"Maybe they went into town," he says, loudly. The silence is strange, and unnerving. "Mother might've needed to buy something for dinner." He nods, already half-convinced of his own guess. Why not? It wouldn't be the first time some crucial ingredient was missing from the shelves. Normally he'd be sent to fetch it, or Kadar, but…

"We were both up with the sheep," he says. "So Mother had to go herself, and Father went with her. They weren't expecting me to come back so early anyway." He turns, triumphant, to face Kadar, who is lingering in the doorway. "Stop worrying, they'll be back soon."

His brother nods, and his worried expression lifts as if by magic to be replaced with contented trust. "How soon?"

"I dunno. The market isn't that far." Malik looks around, restless. His explanation fits, and it's certainly reassured his brother, but for some reason he still isn't at ease. There's something that's just not…

"The floor's dirty," Kadar says, his child's voice cutting through the unnatural gloom. "I guess there were villagers over again today."

"Probably." Malik stares at the floor. It's reamed with heavy, black footprints. Someone has tracked in a lot of dirt from outside, too. Strange that his mother hadn't immediately cleaned it all up…

"Kadar," he says suddenly, because the house is too dark and too still, "Let's go find them. They must've left recently, so we should catch up to them and help them carry what they buy."

"But I'm tired," Kadar whines. He looks shiftily at his brother. "Can't you go? I'll wait here."

And for a minute the idea makes sense—Malik is the faster one, it'll be easier for him to catch up to their parents alone. It isn't as though there's any reason why the two of them have to stay together. It isn't as though there's anything wrong.

Malik looks at the smudged floor and feels a cramping in his gut. "We're both going," he says. He can't keep his voice entirely even, so instead he tries to make it stern. "You're almost seven, not a lazy little boy. Sons should, should…" He deepens his voice, trying for their father's firm and gentle wisdom. "Sons should honor their parents. That is their responsibility. Allah designed the world so that everyone must help each other."

Truthfully, Malik does not sound much like his father; he sounds like a ten year old struggling with big words. But it's enough for Kadar, who stares up at him in wonder, and Malik ends up with a bit of a strut to his walk as he heads for the door. His obedient brother follows him out.

They walk in silence to the village proper, which is some distance away and hidden by hills. Malik grips Kadar by the wrist, pulling him along in burgeoning anxiety, and the younger boy does not complain. The wind picks up as they draw closer, carrying with it faint cries and yells.

They round the last curve, and face fire.

The village nestled into the valley before them is burning, the licking flames obscuring the horizon line. The air is thick with smoke and terror and a horrible, sick-sweet smell that seems to somehow bear a greasy weight. Almost every building within eyesight is alight, and those few that aren't yet have had their windows smashed and their doors caved in. It is hellishly hot, almost too hot to breathe.

Ice freezes Malik in place. His limbs heavy as stone, he stares wildly at the destruction before him. A strangled groan gets caught in his throat. Kadar clutches at his tunic, whimpering in bewilderment.

The village at the foot of the hill is burning. The—the _people_ are burning…! Because there are people: terrified villagers, most of whom Malik could probably recognize if he could only _focus_ long enough. Screaming people, running in all directions. Except that some of them aren't running. Some of them are lying in mangled heaps in the road, or half-hanging out of broken doorways. The ground is drenched, Malik realizes with another smothered moan: drenched in blood, from one house to the next. Beside him, Kadar whimpers again, and he has an irrational impulse to cover his brother's eyes, to shield him from the gruesome nightmare, the death and screams.

But he doesn't move. He _can't_ move. He is locked in place by the weight of that strange, greasy smell.

Kadar tugs on his tunic, crying openly now. "Malik, let's go. Let's go home. Please, Malik, I want to go."

"No one else is leaving," Malik says faintly. It's true: the villagers are scrambling in every direction to escape the flames, but none of them are making it past the outer buildings. Only then does Malik notice that not everyone below is running aimlessly—some are chasing, and some are being chased. Through the smoke he sees unfamiliar men in dirty uniforms, baring swords and roaring with laughter loud enough to rival the crackling of the flames. There are even a few on horseback, ringing the village and skirting the fires…

_No one can leave_, Malik realizes. _They're being trapped inside._

_Why…?_

There is the crush of hooves on earth, and a snarling laugh in some fermented tone; Malik turns his head to see a pale, beardless man riding up the path towards them. The man wears long, white robes, smudged grey by dirt. There is a red cross painted on the front of his clothing, on the armor of his horse.

His horse! Malik has seen _Sayyid_ Murtada's horses, he has even sat atop Hamid's ancient beast, but never has he faced a creature like this. It seems as much a demon as a horse, pure black and snorting as it runs. Its rider is sneering—Kadar screams, and Malik realizes that the man is brandishing a sword as he charges in their direction.

The ice shatters. The bonds break. Malik grabs his brother by the arm and runs.

_-i-_

Into the smoke. Into the chaos. Into a world where people shriek and fall and burn alive. Malik's only thought is to reach the other side of the village, to reach Murtada's grand, two-story house. Murtada is rich, and, and powerful, and—and they'll be _safe_ with him…!

A man bumps into Kadar, trips, curses and keeps going. Malik turns and tries to yank his brother back to his feet. "Get up!" he cries. The demon-rider lost them in the smoke, but there are other soldiers everywhere, smashing everything from doors to skulls. "Get up! We can't stay here!"

But Kadar is wailing, eyes fixed at a house that Malik recognizes with a start. It's _Sayyid_ Baqir's tiny hovel, and it's on fire along with everything else, and there's a man sprawled in front of it, lying face-down in the redbrown dirt. Malik inches closer, and tastes vomit at the back of his throat: Baqir doesn't have any _arms_.

Kadar is still bawling. Malik stares in gross fascination at the gushing stumps. There is a beguiling emptiness where the limbs should be, and somehow he can _see_ the hollow missing…Someone inside the burning house cries out, though it's hardly distinguishable from all the other cries. Malik drags his eyes away from Baqir in time to see a woman dart past the gaping doorway. He flinches, and even Kadar is shocked enough to stop crying—the woman was entirely naked.

She is pursued by a shadow. There's another cry, a grunt, the sound of something breaking. A second later a soldier steps out of the hovel, one hand still busy at his crotch. He steps over—steps _on_—Baqir's corpse and sees Malik ogling him. He smirks and licks his lips.

There's a dusty flash as he pulls his sword from its scabbard.

In his terror Malik whirls around too quickly; he trips over his own feet and falls hard, elbows smacking against the ground. The air is ripped from him and he struggles for breath, but what he finally breathes in is too gore-tinged, and he chokes.

The soldier is getting closer. This time it is Kadar who flings himself beside his brother and tugs at trembling shoulders. "Brother," he says, voice choking in his throat. "What are…where…?"

"Murtada," Malik manages, but the minute the words are out of his throat he knows they aren't an answer. Murtada's house would be visible from where they are, if not for all the smoke, and yet none of the frantic crowds are surging there. Why should a large house be any safer than a small one? Both of them can burn.

But what else can Malik tell his brother? What other option is there but to make up some point of safety, for Kadar's sake if not his own? He has to tell him something. He has to protect his little brother somehow.

It is his duty. The world is mad and ending, but Malik's obligations have not changed.

He forces himself back to his feet, snatching his brother's hand again and breaking out into a fresh run. He doesn't look back to see if the soldier is following them; he's too afraid to turn his head and see the man lunging for him with that brutal sneer. The smoke is getting thicker, making Malik's head spin; Kadar is coughing, rubbing at red eyes with a dirty hand.

"Just a little bit farther," Malik tells him, despite the winded burn starting to spread in his lungs. "Murtada will have guards," he says. The lie is so sweet he half-believes it true. "We'll be safe there. Just a little further."

"I have a cramp," Kadar says in a tiny voice. His short legs have been working double to keep up with Malik's longer gate. "I have a cramp and it's too smoky."

"You have to keep running. Don't make me drag you along." Malik is too focused to notice how tired he's become. The houses they're passing now are more spaced out, but the fires are raging higher here, and it's just as hard to breathe. There are fewer people this far down—fewer living people, anyway. Plenty of bodies, melted into the earth, and a couple times Malik stumbles over some half-baked corpse, tripping on charred bits of bone. Kadar gives a little squeak of terror the first time it happens. Malik narrows his eyes and presses grimly on.

He has a death grip on his brother's hand, so tight his own fingers are beginning to ache. If he were to lose Kadar somewhere in the haze…

"Come on," he says: his mantra, forming words with his lips because he has to, he needs to, Kadar trusts him and he needs to _make_ them both survive.

There are still soldiers, mostly on horseback since the ones are foot are busy running rabid in the more crowded parts of town. The horsemen are ringing the burning houses, joking with one another, clutching at whatever valuables they managed to steal. Occasionally some living villager manages to break from the street, and then the closest rider charges with drawn and bleeding sword.

"Don't look," Malik says to Kadar the first time this happens. "Look straight ahead, don't turn around." Neither one has to look to hear the screams as villager after villager is run down; it's just that there isn't a point to looking, not even to be shocked. There are plenty of horrors in front of them to be stared at, after all.

"Come on," Malik says. They pass a woman sitting by a half-collapsed hut, weeping with her headscarf askew. "Come on." There's a dead _something_ in the dirt, but Malik sees it too late and his foot comes down with a _crack_. "Come on." Someone in what was once an alleyway is moaning, again and again. The buildings are all destroyed, the road blocked by detritus, and beyond where the ally once ended a Templar sits on his horse and cleans his sword. Kadar is coughing again, eyes swollen, face pale. "Come _on_."

They round a bend, where on normal days there is a quick stretch of tended fields. Murtada's house, on normal days, is on the other side of those fields. On normal days the rich man can see the village without needing to live directly in its grime.

This is not a normal day. The fields have been trampled by a dozen horses, there is a dead body blocking the road further down, and Murtada's house is not burning. It simply isn't _there_. If he squints, Malik can see the rubble where it, on normal days, had been.

"There are guards," Kadar says, his voice cracking at the end. "You said Murtada had guards."

Malik tries to catch his breath. His head is swimmy, filling with fog.

"You said," Kadar repeats, shriller now. "There are guards, right? You _said_."

"Do you see any?" Malik snaps, but regrets it instantly. "There…I thought there were guards. I was wrong. There aren't any."

"But Murtada was rich," his little brother protests, still indignant. "Father always says he's powerful."

"He was. He is." Malik stares at the rubble. "I don't know. There aren't any guards."

Kadar stamps his foot. "I want to go home. You said Mother and Father would be at the market but I didn't see them and I'm tired and I want to go _home_."

"You saw the village! It's on fire, and there are Templars everywhere. We can't go back."

"I _want_ to."

"We can't go back." All Malik wants to do is collapse. He is so tired…he is just so…

"I want Mother," Kadar mumbles. He squats down, arms folded across his chest, tear-streaked face caught into a scowl. "Malik, I'm scared." Malik looks at him. At his younger brother. His responsibility. And he finds that he isn't quite so tired anymore.

He turns in a quick, dazed circle. The road behind them is a deathtrap, but surely there are other ways home? There's always the long way, through the hills that ring the village. The problem will be the gap between road and hill; if the Templars see them breaking through the trap it will be over, very quickly. Though the soldiers all seem preoccupied with watching the more populated area behind them. And if they reach that path, they can avoid the Templars and still find their house again. There's food there, and water—and their parents, surely, _surely_ their parents are back and safe—they can catch their breath there, anyway…

"Malik," Kadar shouts. He turns to see his life repeating, horribly: a demon-horse is cantering up the road towards them. Its Templar rider (who can't possibly be the same man who chased them into the flames, it's just that all the Templars have the same ugly faces, the same burnt grins) tugs on the reins. The horse breaks into a run.

"Get off the road," Malik gasps. "Run!" He gives his brother a hard shove. Kadar stumbles into the high grass of the field: Malik turns to see the horse almost upon him—his mind goes past terror into icy numbness—the sword swings for him and he stares—

A rock cracks the Templar against the side of his head; the man swears, tugging the hand that's still grabbing the reins instinctively sideways. The horse skitters off the path, ears pressed back. Malik takes a giant step backwards.

_Kadar_, he realizes. _Idiot! Why isn't he running away while he can?_

The Templar nudges his horse back onto the road. One hand is still clutching the reins and one hand the hilt of his sword, so the thin line of blood trickling down the side of his face flows unchecked. He bellows something, in his slimy tongue. Then he snarls, "Where th' bastard who t'rew it?" in a thick, accented Arabic. His clumsy mouth mangles the familiar words into something rank.

Another rock is launched from the high grass, but this one misses its mark entirely and instead strikes the horse. The beast makes a shrill noise of complaint; the Templar jerks at the reins, but his mount has become angry, and hard to control.

It's hard to say how Malik knows to do what he does next…it lies in front of him, his course of action, and he cannot help but take it. Perhaps it's his instincts, perhaps something else, but he knows how to move his body now. Knows how to twist his way in between horse and rider without being struck by hooves or blade. Knows to reach for the reins, to tug them as roughly as he can, so that the horse shies backwards, in pain. Knows to then release the reins, quickly, and jump back, though not before giving the alarmed Templar a shove…

The man swears again, as his horse rears back. Then he loses his grip on the reins and falls off, in an awkward way, still with one hand wrapped around leather. Because it's such an awkward fall he doesn't have time to prepare for the ground: he lands hard, full on his back. The horse moves away from its fallen master, towards the empty field. Malik stares at the groaning Templar. The man is huge, and armed, and a professional killer…

And Malik has stopped him, if only for a moment. It's something to consider, when he has the time.

For now he turns and runs into the opposite field, where Kadar is waiting. He grabs his brother's hand again, and pushes his weary legs as fast as he can for the path that will take them home.

_-i-_

The trail that cuts through the hills is frustratingly steep. The brothers are exhausted, their fast pace dissolved into a miserable trudging. At one point Kadar asks to stop, complaining of thirst, but Malik is too afraid that the Templars will catch up to them if they pause. So they keep going, with the older brother pulling the younger along. For a while Malik is able to distract them both from their misery by describing again and again the victory by Murtada's rubble.

"Your aim was perfect," he announces with a levity he doesn't feel. "Did you see the look on his face?"

"It was pretty funny," Kadar says with something approaching happiness. "I was real useful, right?"

"You saved my neck. Though," he adds sternly, "you should have run when I told you to."

"But then you'd be dead, Brother."

"Don't worry," says Malik. "Whatever happens, I won't die."

Kadar accepts this, or maybe he's just too tired to argue. The conversation falters and breaks away. It's beginning to get dark. Malik is still prepared to discover it's all been a dream. Surely he is sleeping, out in the fields…surely his father will come to find him soon, and lecture him on napping while the sheep are loose. Surely none of this has actually _happened_.

"Brother," Kadar says softly, "The village is gone. What are we going to do?" And Malik doesn't know how to answer.

The path finally leaves the hills, curves around and leads them into a field. On the other end of this field is the house that has been a place of safety, of rest, for as long as Malik has been alive. But now he approaches it warily, with chills running down the back of his neck, no longer able to trust anything after the madness in the village. He stops a few feet back from the house, by a large rock, and just after he does so he notices the soldiers.

The Templar soldiers. Three of them, standing outside the house, talking in their strange language. They all have swords; they're all so pale the sunlight seems to glance right off their skin. They all look like monsters, though Malik supposes they must be at least partially human under all that armor and white cloth.

"Where's Mother?" Kadar is overtired, and scared; his voice rises shrilly, and Malik has to shush him lest one of the Templars hears. He pulls them both down behind the rock and tries to think.

(He has been trying to think since the insanity started. It is so exhausting, to always have to be the one with the answers, the savior and the strength. Is this what it is to be an adult? Can't someone else be the brave one now? All Malik wants to do is sleep.)

"You said we'd go home and we'd be safe. You said Mother and Father would be in the village. Brother…" Kadar draws his knees to his chest. His tunic is caked with dirt and torn, his face smudged with ash and tears. Malik supposes that he must not look much better himself.

"I know. I'm sorry. Let's wait and see what they do. They can't stay here forever, they must have a…a group or something to join." It strikes him then that he has no idea what sort of soldiers the Templars _are_—are they always from the same country? Is Malik's village at war? _Can_ a lone village be at war? The Templars have always been around, yes, but in small groups. Pockets of half-drunk bandits, pillaging and thieving and making the roads dangerous at night, but never _this_. Never destruction on such an enormous scale…

Once, the Christian armies and the Muslim ones had been at war, and there must have been similar scenes: cities burning, blood in waves. But that was a long time ago! Hadn't Malik's father said as much? Isn't he wise enough to know? The wars are over, and the Templars just a fading remnant of a bitter enemy—the wars are _over_, and the times are calmer, and this is not supposed to happen, to them or anyone else.

Malik sits with his back against the rock and prays to Allah that the soldiers might move off. Back to their army, their country, their particular part of Hell. Just _back_, so that Malik can breathe without tasting terror at the back of his throat. It has been only a little while since he was content, even bored, sitting with the sheep and daydreaming for lack of any real stress. Only a little while, but it has become years.

"What are they doing?" Kadar wants to know.

"Stealing stuff, probably."

"My good tunic!" Kadar says crossly. "Mother just made that for me!" He looks up at his brother. "Maybe they won't take it?" he asks. "It's _my_ tunic. An' I hope they don't take Father's prayer mat, 'cause he said he'd let me use it when I turned ten like you."

Malik, drained as he is, has to smile. He is quickly starting to realize that he can only be scared for so long before fear becomes the norm and he ceases to feel it. The horror is so complete that he is beginning to forget what it is to feel safe, and so, somehow, being frightened loses its edge. "It's an expensive mat. They'll probably take it."

"It's not fair. It's Father's mat, not theirs." Kadar slouches. "And that's _my_ tunic."

"Shh. Keep your voice down. If they realize we're here, we're in trouble."

"It's getting dark," Kadar says, this time in a whisper. "When are they going to go?"

"Soon…" Malik gets back to his feet and peers out from behind the rock, so tense he can feel himself shaking. He squints in the fading light, just able to see the house and the Templars. There are still three men standing outside, but as Malik watches the front door bangs open and a fourth man appears, draped in shadow. He says something that makes the other three laugh. Then he steps farther outside, bent at the waist, and Malik sees that he is dragging something out by both hands. Dragging out—

Malik falls back, scuttling away from the sight on all fours. He shrieks but there is no sound.

The world becomes veiled. His eyes brim with tears but he cannot shed them; there is a howl building in his throat but he cannot yell. There will be a scream lurking inside him for years, forever, and it squeezes down on his lungs, it aches so badly, it tastes like ash. He wants to cry but can't. All he can do is double over, a dying man in the dirt. For he is a man now, he _must_ be, there is no way to stay a child and still see…Malik wraps his arms around his stomach and is willing to give up, but no one comes to accept the surrender.

The fog is pierced by two small hands, which latch onto his shoulders in a flurry of nails against skin. Malik, this new Malik, resents the intrusion. "Brother," he hears someone whisper. "What's wrong? What did you see? Malik, what's going on?"

His mind is a whirling blank, but even the new Malik knows his responsibilities. Somewhere he remembers his brother, and the only thought he has is that _Kadar must not see_.

"Don't look," he rasps out. "Kadar, don't look."

"Why not? What is it?"

"Stay behind the rock. Keep your eyes closed, don't look out."

But Kadar is curious, and grumpy in that childish way that says he has had enough of cryptic orders. "I wanna see," he says, and stands up to look out at the Templars.

Malik lunges, grabs him, knocks him back to the earth in a tangle of limbs. He does not know himself, does not know his brother, but he knows his duty and his duty is to protect. Malik the shepherd rears back and snarls in a voice he does not recognize as his own, "_I said don't look_." He hits Kadar across the face, with a child's strength but an adult's desperation. Finally he is crying, for the first time all day.

Kadar stares up at him, shocked into silence. For a moment, the only sound is Malik's harsh breathing. Then Kadar brings a hand to the red welt rising on his cheek and whimpers. Malik is jolted back to himself by the sad little sound.

"Oh," he says, faintly. He sits back against the rock, stunned. Kadar sits up slowly, looking lost.

And then Malik grabs for his brother, who does not flinch away but sits as still as stone, and pulls him into a tight embrace. Kadar shudders, and then they are both crying, and for the first time Malik begins to think he can survive the memory of the last few moments, the images seared into his skull.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Kadar, I'm sorry." He repeats himself until the words lose their meaning. Then he pulls back, and tries to look his brother in the eye. He even manages to stop the tears, and privately decides that they are the last ones he'll ever shed.

(He is the adult. He is the one who must be strong.)

"Kadar," he says, and waits until the younger boy stops sniffling. "It's just you and me now, ok? Do you understand? It's just us now. Things are all different and we have to survive. I'll protect you, so you don't have to be scared. I'll be the one to watch out for us now."

"What about Mother? And Father? Why can't they…?"

The Image From Before pulses and for a second Malik is sure he's going to throw up. "It's just us," he says again, somehow with a steady voice. "We can't go home anymore, Kadar, ok? We don't have that home anymore. It's gone."

"Not fair," his brother mumbles.

"I—I know. It isn't. But…listen, I'll find us something new. We'll stick together. I…" and he struggles for air and words, "I'm sorry I hit you. I won't do it again, ever. But you have to listen to me, alright? It's just us now and I need to keep you safe, so you have to…you have to listen…"

"I will. I promise." Kadar wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve. He even manages to smile: a tiny, shaky one, but it's there.

"We shouldn't stay here," Malik says. "We'll have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight." He tries not to let his uncertainty show. "I'll find us a place. A new place, just for us."

"I liked our old one," Kadar sighs: not a complaint, but a statement of fact. A sense of resignation he is far too young to have.

Malik manages a bitter smile. "I did too. But we can't have it back. Mother and Father are gone. The Templars took everything."

"I hate Templars." The little brother clutches the older one's shirtfront and looks up at him. "Can't you fight them? You fought wolves."

"I…" The answer is blurry, and a bit grey around the edges, but as Malik watches it solidifies into something real. The hows and whens and wheres are still jumbled, but the what is clear as glass. "I'll fight them," he says. "Maybe we both will. I promise we'll fight off the Templars. I said I'd protect you, didn't I? I'll fight them all, some day."

"Ok," says Kadar, and there's nothing else to do but leave.

_-i-_

They slink back towards the path in the hills. Malik orders his brother not to look back at their house, _the_ house, in all its violence and betrayal. This time, Kadar listens.

There's nowhere to go—the nearest village is miles and miles away—so eventually they find some crevice, more a crack in a low-slung hill than a full cave, and settle in. Even the desert gets cold at night; there's no food, nor anywhere to wash up. Kadar is exhausted enough that he falls asleep almost instantly anyway, burrowing into Malik's lap for warmth, face still wet with fresh tears.

Malik stays awake. Malik is no longer tired.

He is still awake when, at some point hours later, Kadar opens his eyes and breathes out a faint, "_Brother_." He points at the fields in front of them. They are too far away now to see the house, but still close enough to see the familiar glow from flames on creaking wood. At least, Malik thinks, they are too far away to see the fire itself. The house has become a hated thing, but even so, he is glad he doesn't have to watch it burn.

"Malik…" Kadar starts to say, but stops when he sees the expression in his brother's eyes. The night wears on, but neither one of them has anything left to say. And Malik does not sleep.


	3. Part One: Chapter Two

AN: Yargh I shouldn't be posting this yet, still not done with the next chapter, but I've done zero out of the billion things I had to do today and need to feel productive on some sad level.

* * *

_**Talking to Dead Men**_

The dawn is clear and cruel. Malik wishes he'd slept, because now he can't even pretend yesterday was a nightmare. He sees the faint hope in Kadar's eyes as his little brother wakens, and longs to feel it himself. It's hard to say who is hurt more when Malik shakes his head slightly—it's something they'll never talk about, but it'll always be lurking between them, wrapped sneering in their shadows.

This horrible dawn. This start to a life that neither brother wants.

"Stay here," Malik says. His voice is hoarse and his mouth feels full of sand. His eyes are burning. He peers out from the crevice, and is almost surprised not to see Templars staring back. "I'm going to find food."

But Kadar latches onto his tunic-front and refuses to let go. "I wanna stay with you," he says, scared. "We gotta stay together, right? I don't wanna wait by myself."

Malik pries his fingers loose, gently. "I know," he says, "but it's too dangerous for both of us to wander into the open until we're sure it's safe. We need food and water, especially if we're going to leave the…the village."

Kadar stares at him with huge eyes. "Where are we going? The next village?"

"I don't think so. If the Templars are marching through…the whole area probably isn't safe."

"Then where?" Kadar is becoming an expert scowler for a six-year-old boy. "I don't wanna live in a cave."

Malik hides a tired smile. It hurts to lift his lips: his whole body hurts, throbs from yesterday's running and the terrifying night spent on hard ground. He feels an old man rather than an adult; it's an old man's smile he forces through now.

"We aren't going to live here," he says. Then he hesitates. He's been musing over the idea all night, unsure and undecided while Kadar slept—he is the adult now and so he is the one who must choose, but he still doesn't know how to tell a right decision from a wrong one, and…

_Father, where are you? How did you always know what to do? What if I make a mistake? Who will be there to fix everything up?_

_What if he dies, Father? _

"We're going to Damascus," Malik says firmly. Kadar's eyes fill with wonder, and his own heart skips a beat at hearing the declaration made out loud. Damascus, of the sky-scraping towers, the white stone roads, the throngs of people in an endless sea. The great city, second only to Jerusalem: a stronghold of the Faithful, and a slice of the world. _Damascus_.

"Why there?" his brother wants to know.

"Because…" Because the old world has burned alive, and the new one must be so different as to destroy even the memory of its predecessor. Because that is the only way Malik will be able to face tomorrow's dawn, and the dawn after that. Because the old him had always longed to see Damascus, and the new him still remembers what it was like to safely dream.

"Because it'll be safe there," he says. "_Sayyid _Hamid told me once that it's full of Muslim soldiers, so there won't be any Templars. There'll be plenty of room for us…we'll find somewhere to live, and…and I'll get a job. I'm old enough to carry messages or apprentice somewhere or…whatever."

Kadar nods. "I'll work too," he says. "Real hard."

But Malik shakes his head. His eyes glint with something too fierce to be joy. If this must be a new life, so be it—but he will control what needs to be changed. "You're gonna go to school," he says.

"School?" Kadar mouths the holy word. "But Mother and Father never sent us."

"They couldn't afford it, I don't think. And anyway, where would they send us? We're too far from everything here. But in Damascus there'll be plenty of teachers, and I'll make sure we can afford to pay them. I'll work all night. You'll learn to read and write, we'll have plenty of food and somewhere to live. Something small," he cautions, already on guard against what sounds too pleasant to be real even in his head. "Something small but nice."

"And it'll be the two of us?"

"Yeah. We'll stay together." Malik rises on stiff legs. The sun is still low in the sky, but it's already hot. His clothing feels caked onto his skin; there is no moisture left in his mouth. Past the hill the fields lie quiet. "But we're going to need food and water if we're going to make it all the way to Damascus."

"How far is it, Malik?"

"Far." (And thankfully Kadar doesn't ask the one question he has been dreading, namely that of _how will we get there_? Malik doesn't know where the great city is. Hamid once mentioned there were signs…) "So I'm going to find food for us—"

"Not yet." Kadar grabs at his tunic again.

"We can't stay here forever. Look, you have to be brave."

"I know. I will be. Just…just wait a little bit. I'm not hungry yet."

"You're a bad liar," Malik admonishes, but he sits back down anyway, relieved in a way for the excuse. "I'm only going to wait for a little bit. Then I really have to go. You'll be fine. Stay in the cave where no one can see you." Kadar promises to listen, but his fingers remain ensnarled in cloth. Malik has to remind him often that he'll only wait a little longer, a few more minutes.

He does not leave the cave for another full day.

The sky darkens and the stars come back out, bright and distant. Kadar falls asleep, and this time even Malik is tired enough that his eyes drift shut. There is a pattern forming here, a desperation for safety and stable ground that is broken only the next morning, when Malik is roused awake by the burning in his throat. He needs water—him and Kadar both. When he stands up, his empty stomach makes the world spin.

Kadar knows better than to protest his brother's leaving this time; he's just as hungry and parched. "I'll come with you," he tries instead. "I can help you carry stuff."

"No." Malik is firm. There is no room for debate.

"Why not? Why can't I go with you?"

"Because you can't." Because the house is gone. Because the Templars were there. Because there is still that Image in his head, and when he goes back he isn't sure what exactly he'll find lying hacked and broken in the dirt.

Malik is scared as he leaves the imaginary comforts of the cave. He is beyond scared. He dreads each step and every glance. The fields are the same as last night, though there is evidence of their being trampled by horses and boot-laden feet. The walk from hills to house takes him twenty agonizing minutes. When he passes the rock they hid behind, he feels nausea rise to swipe at him again. In the distance, smoke trails lazy patterns against the blue sky.

The sun is shining. It's hot. It's quiet. Malik's every footfall seems jarringly loud. He wonders what would happen if he started to run and just kept _going_—past desert, past town, until Damascus is there to wrap itself around him. What would happen if he put the first ten years of his life aside and pretended a new one until it felt real?

He wonders this for a few minutes, because he is only human and he is so tired, but then he lets the thought go and trudges onwards. The thought of running leaves a sour taste in his parched throat. Why should _he_ run? What has he done to deserve that sort of life? It isn't _fair_. The Templars are the ones who should be running.

Malik, at ten, is very stern in his belief that things should be fair.

Anyway, he acknowledges with a frown, he can't abandon Kadar. They'll find Damascus together. And if they can't find Damascus, then they'll find some other place. Either way. Whatever. It's awfully hard to be passionate about anything at all, baking as he is in what has become a dry wasteland. The village must always have been this hot, this far from anything else. Malik's home must have always been lonely.

It just never felt that way before.

There: he stops, abruptly, feet scuffing the dust. He is prepared to see a pile of ash and beams burnt black, so it is worse in some ways to see that half of the house is still standing. The front room is gone, and so is the middle—Malik pictures his mother bent over the fireplace and his stomach twists—but the last room is still more or less intact.

His shoes raise small clouds of black dust as he makes his hesitant way forward. It all smells like smoke and rot and ash. He steps first onto the pile of rubble that was the front room and remembers sitting here with his father and the villagers. He remembers sitting in the dead room and talking to dead men. There is nothing here salvageable; this could be any bonfire's detritus, any cooking fire's remnants. There is nothing here to suggest 'house'.

So Malik steps over a cracking beam and stands in the second pile of rubble. This, too, has been reduced to ruin. What, he thinks numbly, does Allah think about this? Can houses die as well as people? Does it make sense to feel surrounded by the ghosts of chairs and beds and cooking pots?

He turns to regard that last room. It is not, he sees up close, truly there: only walls are still standing, the wood darkened and warped but somehow not collapsed. The room's innards, though, are an ugly, burned shambles. There is no ceiling, and the sun beats down as pitilessly here as anywhere else.

There is nothing here to salvage. Malik can't remember why he bothered to come. He feels foolish even as he kicks around for something to hold—his father's prayer mat, his brother's tunic, one of his mother's scarves. He doesn't find anything. Eventually he gives up.

On his way back to his brother, still tired and hungry, so thirsty that the ground bucks and swims before his eyes, he stops at the sheep pen. There are no sheep here now, not that he was expecting to find any. Malik the shepherd has lost his herd. The old gate leans brokenly, torn from its uppermost hinge.

_I should have made sure it was closed,_ he tells himself, knowing it wouldn't have made a difference either way. _I shouldn't have been so lazy._

He keeps walking.

_-i-_

Kadar is huddled by the cave mouth, knees pressed to his chest, looking sullen. There are some small stones gathered into a pile by his feet.

Malik stops in front of him. "Expecting Templars?" he asks. Then he winces—his throat is parched enough that talking hurts.

His brother doesn't look up at him. "Find anything?" he asks, a hand at his throat suggesting that he is having similar problems.

"No." Malik studies the pile of stones. "I want to check out the rest of the village. There has to be something. But I came back to get you first."

Kadar shakes his head. "I don't want to see the village," he mumbles.

"We can stop at the stream on the way," Malik coaxes. "I know you're thirsty. And we need food if we're gonna reach Damascus, right?"

"I guess."

"Come on. You can take your stones with you."

Kadar finally looks up. "In case of wolves?" he wants to know.

Malik's throat tightens, independent of its thirst. "Yeah," he says. "In case we have to fight them off."

"But I'm not ten yet, Brother. I don't think I could do it."

"I'll teach you. You trust me, right?"

Kadar nods. He rises to his feet, swaying a bit from thirst. Somewhere under all that dirt is Malik's six-year-old brother, but as is he's hard to recognize. Malik smiles and reaches for his hand.

_-i-_

They reach the stream and drink eagerly. Malik squats and cups his hands together to drink from; Kadar is so thirsty he falls onto all fours and laps at the stream directly until his brother swats at his head for him to stop. The water is delicious in its flavorless chill. It diminishes both thirst and hunger, filling up aching bellies for the time being. That won't last forever, Malik knows, but it's a nice feeling for now.

He washes his hands, dips his head in and tries to scrub some of the dirt off his face. Then his hair, which has become stiff with sand: the washing feels wonderful, and he stops only to make sure Kadar is following suit.

"Clothes off," he orders. "We might be wearing this stuff for a while, so we have to try and keep it all clean." Kadar bobs his head and begins the laborious task of removing stones from his pockets.

The sun is hot against Malik's bare back as he dunks his shirt underwater. Kadar, having left his own tunic for his brother to clean as well, sits in the stream and scoops up handfuls of mud. Brown ooze drips through his fingers. "I'm hungry," he says after a while. Already the water's magic is wearing away. "Will there be food in the village?"

"We'll find something. Here—put this back on. _After_ you're out of the mud."

Kadar shrugs his way back inside his clothing. The sodden fabric sticks to his skin, but at least clean he is recognizable. "How long will it take us to get to Damascus?"

Malik takes his time getting dressed, using it as an excuse to scrounge up an appropriate answer. "A while," he says eventually. "_Sayyid_ Hamid said it took him five days but he was on horseback. Might take a couple of weeks, if we walk. So we need to bring enough food to last."

"Can't we buy some along the way?"

_With what money?_ Malik shrugs. "We'll see." He stands up, looks in the direction of the village. "It's getting late," he says, "so let's get going." Then, after a pause: "There won't be much left," he says, carefully. "Don't be scared if it looks all…"

But Kadar is reloading himself with his rocks. He is as prepared as he can be, and Malik leaves the rest of his warning behind.

_-i-_

They reach the village by the same path they took to reach it two days ago, and just as before it rests below them, nestled in the valley. Just as before, it is smoking and strange. Most of it is gone (the houses replaced by that same bonfire's ash that swallowed their home), and what still stands is wrecked. And there are still bodies.

But what can they do? They need to eat. So Malik leaves Kadar waiting by the first building still somewhat intact and begins the search. It's a long, dirty, wretched process: the corpses are bloated from two days in the sun, and they're beginning to stink. Malik does not look at them, is too afraid of recognizing someone. He avoids what's left of _Sayyid_ Baqir's house altogether. At least Kadar doesn't seem too traumatized: he busies himself looking for more stones.

There isn't much of value to find, considering how thorough a job the Templars did of looting. Malik walks past a mangy old dog, lying beside what must be its owner's body; it growls when it sees him, fur rising along its spine, but it doesn't get to its feet. Occasionally a flustered chicken hurries past rubble. Malik ignores both creatures: there's no way for them to keep a living animal alive.

The village, last week, had been bustling despite its size. Now there are no housewives clustering at the well, no men hurrying to the mosque for prayer. There isn't a mosque at all, flattened as it was by the Templars' delighted rage.

Malik searches ghost houses, is careful to apologize to each ghost occupant for taking what little he finds. Bits of passages from the Holy Quran float through his mind when he passes the visible dead, but he brushes them aside. His father would be horrified to hear it, but in this situation it seems mere laments aren't enough, no matter how holy. Malik has no choice but to forge his own answers out of the earth. Surely Allah will understand.

After two hours of searching, with his emotional and physical reserves of strength depleted, Malik considers his haul. He's found three loves of bread, one of them rock-hard with age, all of them covered with ash from the rubble pile they'd lurked under. He's found a hunk of cheese, large enough to last a while; there's a bit of mold at the edge but that's easy to scrape off. There's a tiny bundle of chickpeas: enough for three meals, maybe, if they eat them slow. And, lastly, one whole onion, fresh and large, the true prize.

Malik scrounges around a bit longer, finding a grimy sack and two jars with lids still attached. Leaving the food with his brother, he walks past the village itself to an even tinier stream, running low in its banks under the hot sun. Still, it's water, and Malik washes both sack and jars. One of the jars is chipped on the lip, he notices, running his thumb along the crack. Not too sharp. They'll make do…

He goes back to the village, rounds up his brother and the food. Once they've left the smells behind, they find shade under an old, dead tree. This seems the perfect place for rest and nourishment. Malik rips off two small chunks from the stale loaf of bread, with some difficulty, and then follows suit with the cheese. The meal is then garnished with the tiniest sliver of onion.

Malik had planned on eating slowly, to make the meal last, but he hadn't realized just how hungry he'd been until the onion's pungent smell struck him. He's helpless before the demands of his stomach and practically inhales the food.

"We'll have a bigger meal tomorrow," he tells his brother. "The road runs right along the stream, so as long as we follow it there'll always be water." He shows Kadar one of the jars, lid on tightly. Inside, water sloshes about. "Still, try to make this last. We might have to avoid the road for a while if we see more soldiers."

"And then we'll find Damascus?"

"Yeah." Malik stands, considers the sun against the line of the horizon. It's later in the day, and cooler now; they've washed up, eaten, and had time to rest. No sense in delaying the journey, then.

He turns to face Kadar. "Well," he says. "Let's go."


	4. Part One: Chapter Three

AN: Chapter three, in which Kadar nearly gets himself adopted and Malik nearly gets himself killed. This chapter rambles around, but I'm not sure that's a bad thing considering Malik and Kadar are themselves rambling around. It was actually supposed to end at a much different place, but my usual let's-make-everything-drawn-out! tendencies required a split. However, now I can say with confidence that Altair (in all his arrogant, preteen glory) definitely shows up next chapter.

Thanks for all the reviews thus far!

(Also, has anyone explored the cheats for Brotherhood yet? There are unicorns! And glowing swords! I will find a way to write a for-srs fic about Ezio charging into battle on a unicorn, I _will_.)

_**

* * *

What Desolate Land**_

Malik is not used to distance.

He knows that his village was a remote one, he recognizes the gap from earth to sky. He has spent many a dull day staring off at the horizon line. But it is one thing to know that the Earth is endless, and quite another thing entirely to be surrounded by that endlessness, to reach the horizon when it had always been so very far away.

The village remnants have long since passed into the distance. The next village has yet to appear. Malik and Kadar follow the dirt road, which follows the stream, and they see no other travelers. There are mountains in the distance, fantastic in their size even from far away. The road curves over hills, occasionally borders some great ravine; Malik orders his brother away from the edge, just in case. He's heard of rockslides, doesn't want to have to chase Kadar down the side of a cliff.

There are fields, most of them dead in the heat, and huge swaths of unused land. The road is a dried expanse of flattened rocks, rough and pitted, curving in sharp lines against sand dunes shoulder-high. There are signs of animal life: birds circling above, a rabbit that jerks away when they get too close. At one point, they pass a barn, or what's left of it. The structure is rotted and warped, a collapsed heap on baked-dry ground. It's the only human sign they've seen in a while—and it isn't the arrow pointing towards Damascus that Malik had hoped it would be.

They walk.

In the worst heat of the noon day they break for an hour. Malik passes out bread and cheese and water; Kadar has already learned not to complain about the portion sizes, but his eyes are huge in his head as he watches the food pass from bag to hand. They eat, slowly, chatting around mouthfuls. Something of a pattern has developed since they've been walking—how many days? Malik has lost track—and there's no sense of urgency to the meal. Better to dawdle, to gather strength for whatever difficult stretch of road lies ahead.

Kadar has adapted well to the constant moving; he's still gathering stones, and by now there's a heavy pile weighing down his pockets. But at night, no matter what sort of shelter they've managed to find, he sleeps curled up almost on top of his older brother. Sometimes he wakes them both up with wild nightmares, vibrant renderings of screams and flames.

Early each morning they wash in the stream and refill their jars. Despite his best efforts, Malik can't get their clothing clean the way their mother always could; his tunic and Kadar's become blotched with brown stains. Grit cakes the seams. He dunks Kadar under the water, trying to get the dirt out of his hair and off his face, but that's something else he isn't very good at doing. Kadar is delighted at the excuse to run around messy, but Malik suspects he should be concerned at how bedraggled they're both starting to look.

When it comes down to it, Malik isn't sure if he's leading them very well. Mostly he makes sure they cover a decent amount of ground each day, but not knowing which direction Damascus lies is unsettling. Still, it isn't as though they can leave the stream's side, even if the great city is beyond it. Sooner or later they will have to pass a village, and someone who knows where to go.

It's scary, though. The world is so large. And Malik feels so small. And at night _his_ dreams are of soft beds and large meals, and the comforts of a herd of sheep. He wonders if Damascus will be an easy place in which to live. He wonders what he'll be doing in three years, three months, three days. He wonders if he will ever be able to sleep the whole night through again.

And then, maybe two weeks after they started walking, Malik opens up the bag with their food and finds nothing inside but a stale crust of bread.

He hands it to Kadar with exclamations of how tired he is, _far_ too tired for eating, he will just drink some water because that's really all he can handle. Really. Kadar accepts this and the bread both. Malik has never been so glad that his brother is only six.

Sleep that night does not come at all, and eventually he stops trying. What are they supposed to do now? How long can they last on water alone? Where did all the _food_ go? Malik _tried_ to ration it carefully, it's been three days since they actually ate anything for lunch: lately it's been small meals when they wake and before they sleep, and water when they stop at noon. He's been moving with an ache in his stomach that doesn't fade even after he's eaten. When he stands up now dark spots flicker in front of his eyes, and he suspects it's the same with Kadar—they've been walking slower, sleeping later, dragging their feet earlier and earlier into the day.

They've been going hungry on the food they had. And now there isn't any food at all.

He turns to look at his brother, who is fast asleep with his head tucked against Malik's leg. Kadar has definitely lost weight: his cheek bones seem more prominent, his wrists whittled down to thin skin and bone. His lips are cracked deep enough to bleed, even with all the water they've been drinking.

Malik stands up, walks the few steps over to the stream. It's gotten lower since they've started following it; at this point it's a mere trickle against sharp stones. Something else to fear—what if the water dries up? _Then_ what?

"Now what?" he whispers. _Father, tell me._

Malik's never been this hungry before. He studies the narrow contours of his face in the water's reflection and realizes how scrawny his own form has become. His hair is stiff with dirt, his face several shades browner from the constant sun. When he lifts his tunic, he can see the clear outline of each and every rib. Skipping dinner was difficult…there hadn't been much for breakfast…and then he had given Kadar most of his portion of last night's dinner, because the younger boy looked so ravenous it hurt…

The next day is hard. There's no breakfast, no hope of any dinner. Kadar has gone back to being sullen and scowly, not that Malik can fault him for it. He drinks water from one of the jars until his stomach hurts, but even then he's still faint-headed from hunger. The sky above them is a heavy weight and the heat rising from the road gives everything a fuzzy sheen.

"Malik," Kadar says, "I'm tired. Can we stop for a while?"

"You slept for over an hour when we stopped for…" Malik hesitates, not sure what to call a lunch break without any lunch. "If we keep stopping we'll never get there."

"But I'm tired."

"How can you be tired already? We've only been walking for a little while."

Kadar's shrug is alarming. His little brother has a dull carelessness in his eyes. The pace has slowed tremendously since they first set out, but even so, Kadar starts to fall behind. Malik considers the road in front of him with a shaking hand pressed to his forehead. The ground is heaving. Isn't it? He can hear his heart pulsing in his ears.

So hungry…if there could be even the smallest bit of bread…

"Can we ask them for food?" For a moment Malik hasn't the faintest idea what his brother is talking about, but then Kadar points and the older boy spots the small cluster of people sitting a few miles down the road, under the shade of a small tree. There are five of them, all men, dressed in threadbare, white robes and turbans to block the sun. Pilgrims, if their clothing is any judge, on their way to some shrine. Every now and then a group would pass through Malik's village, and they were always fed and sheltered and treated with respect until they left—holy actions in service to Allah deserved their reward.

"Can we?" Kadar asks again.

"They probably don't have much," Malik says, trying for wise. Is it fair to ask pilgrims for favors? Doesn't it usually work the other way around? But he is starving, and he knows that Kadar is as well. And that ranks higher than anything else. "Let's try, though. Come on."

The men stare at them as they approach, eyes no doubt taking in the grubby clothes and sunken cheeks. Kadar stands a bit behind his brother, one hand clutched at the back of his tunic. Malik is almost too excited at the prospect of food to remember the customary greetings. He opens his mouth, but at the last moment remembers that he is an adult, and that adults should always be polite and dignified.

So: "Peace go with you," he says, pulling himself up to his full, if limited, height. Four of the men say nothing in response—one of them actually turns away—but the fifth continues to gaze with sharp eyes. Eventually he nods.

"And with you," the man says, scratching at his hairline from under the turban. His eyes are green, his nose beaked, his left cheek cut in two by a scar running from eye to lip. He sounds brusque, maybe even impatient. "This is a strange place to meet travelers so young. Where are your parents, boy?"

"Malik's not a—" Kadar starts to protest. But Malik, wilting under the pilgrim's disinterest, eager to prove his maturity to these men who have clearly failed to note that he is _ten_, interrupts.

"Don't talk over your elders, Kadar," he scolds: and the pilgrims break out into laugher before he's finished the sentence. It isn't particularly friendly laughter, either. Even their dour speaker grins, meanly.

Malik, flushing, winces at the laughter as if being struck. A low buzzing starts up in his ears. He is suddenly very acute of how hot the sun is on his back, how disheveled and dirty he must look, how small he is compared to the desert he is in. He swallows. The back of his throat aches, but Malik has already forsworn tears.

The speaker shakes his head and lifts his hand. The long sleeves of his robe cascade around his wrists, the fabric bunching about his fingers when he gestures. "If it's food you're after, there's a place a mile down the road," he says. Malik studies the hairy knuckles as they point. "Before you reach the village itself. They might be willing to feed a couple of beggars."

"Oh," says Malik, "we're not—" and the word blasts into him, slices cleanly as an arrow through the gut. _Beggar_. The lowest of the world, loved by Allah and no one else. Always filthy, and sometimes scary, and _forgotten_. Ignored. Is that what they are now?

"We had a home," he tries to argue, "and we're going…"

The pilgrims aren't listening. No sympathy for someone who has to lower themselves on someone else's scraps. No honor in it. Malik doesn't have a home and he doesn't have parents and he doesn't have money or anything of value…so what else is he? Doesn't 'beggar' fit? And can he blame the pilgrims for their callousness? A month ago he would have given a wide birth to any wild-haired stranger who outstretched a sand-smeared hand for food. Even his mother would have closed the door. Malik looks at his own hands: slender fingers rubbed raw from harsh stream scrubbings, nails bitten to the bloody quick, dirt crusted to each knuckle. He presses one of those hands against his shirtfront, feels the roughness of a fabric overworn and overwashed.

He has beggar's hands, doesn't he? What difference is there between himself and the old man who used to sing at the mosque? That man had been pathetic in his blindness, in his drooling, toothless grin. He'd lurk by the mosque doors, humming, hands outstretched, and he was tolerated. Yes, _tolerated_: as a means for the villagers to accomplish their Allah-given charitable duties. As a reminder that even they were not _that_ desperate, though they might be poor. They tolerated the beggar, 'their beggar' (their beggar and no others) but no one paid him much attention unless they were pressing coins against his palm.

Where did that old blind man go when the prayers were done? Where did he spend the night? Did he just sit in front of the tiny mosque, singing to an empty street? Malik never wondered before. Why hadn't he? Who notices a wasted man?

"Well?" cuts in one of the pilgrims. "Get going, then. There's nothing here for you."

"Yes," Malik manages, faint and drawn-in. "Thank you."

The green-eyed man sighs. "They'll feed you," he says, "but then you should move on. This area isn't for the likes of you." His tone dips down more in warning than in scorn, but Malik barely registers the difference. He mumbles something polite and grabs Kadar by the wrist again; he can feel the speaker's eyes plastered to his back as he all but skulks away.

"What happened?" Kadar demands. "Why didn't they give us anything?" Malik is awhirl in sour frustration and doesn't answer. Nasty words he didn't realize he knew—picked up from _Sayyid_ Baqir, no doubt—swim at his lips. As an adult and as a humiliated _beggar_ he is tempted to use them. Arrogant bastards! Stupid sons of whores!

"Ma_lik_." Kadar squirms, panting as his older brother speeds up. "What's _wrong_?"

Malik marches along, head high. No money and no food but _pride_—who are those men that they are so high-class? Next time he won't stay so meek. Next time he will blast the offender until he runs out of breath. For a hundred years, he will curse them…

"You're not even listening to me," Kadar grumbles. "Why didn't we get food from them? They must've _had_ it."

Malik snaps, "You were there, weren't you?" He tugs at his brother's hand. "Come on. We're going."

Kadar cranes his head over his shoulder, trying to spot the white blur. "We've already gone," he points out: they're quite a ways down the road by now, and at the next drifting curve the pilgrims are blocked from view forever. Kadar twists even further to try and see, ultimately stumbling over a rock in the road. Malik growls and yanks him forward.

"Watch where you're going or you'll fall and break something. Or you'll ruin your shoes. You don't have another pair so if you ruin those you'll have to walk barefoot and that'll hurt 'cause of the rocks but I won't carry you, I just _won't_." Malik feels both better and worse for releasing his anger. His voice wavers, defiant or dejected.

"I was just asking," Kadar says quietly. "You never tell me anything."

Malik doesn't respond, but his grip on his brother's hand tightens as he drags them both down the empty road.

_-i-_

The house, when they see it a mile or so later, is a thatched-roof hut. One door, one window, a skinny donkey braying in the dead field out back. The roof, ill-fitting, hangs over the back end of the house, forming enough shade that someone has tried to use for a scraggly sort of garden. The road passes right in front, desolate as ever, but behind the house and the field are some rolling hills; the house stands in front of them as if a beacon or a guard. Malik, resentful in his light-headedness, marches to the front door and knocks. He has already decided with all the force of a ten-year-old that he will raid the garden if no one answers.

But someone does answer. A woman, headscarved as they always are, about the same age as their mother but with dark stress lines cutting across her face. The shock of hair jutting loose from the headscarf is black flecked with grey. Her cheekbones are prominent—she's as thin as the swaddled baby cradled in her arms.

She pulls open the door wider, straining against the warped wood, when she sees Malik looking up at her in some shyness. Strange women are not something Malik has much experience with; he is old enough to know he cannot be as bold with ladies as he might be with their male relations, but not old enough that looking one in the eye would be considered a serious insult. He does not _need_ to wait for this stranger to fetch her husband before opening his mouth, but wonders if he should anyway. The adult world is so full of complexities and contradictions, he is learning day by day.

Not that the woman is even looking at him. She's staring at Kadar, half-hidden behind his brother and beaming hopefully, and her mouth rounds in surprise. "…Are you children from the village?" she asks, so quiet there's no tone to the words.

Malik shakes his head. "We're traveling," he says, because it isn't so far from the truth.

"Alone? Where are your parents?"

"I'm taking care of us," he mumbles, bracing for more scorn. But the woman only grows still. The baby in her arms whines a bit, waving an arm free of the blankets. But rather than lift it to her breast the woman only shifts it in her grip; the baby whines a bit more, but still she doesn't feed it, and a part of Malik notes the thin bruising of that arm. Kadar as an infant had been so much larger, hadn't he? All baby-fat, and a real howler when hungry. Malik looks again at this creature, sees how quick it is to stop its cries.

"Where are you going?" the woman asks, softly. Malik considers lying, but Kadar chirps an answer before he has a chance.

"Damascus. We've been walking for_ever_."

"Damascus," she repeats, with the faintest of smiles. "That's a long journey. You're so young for such a trip." She flicks her eyes up and down, and Malik knows she is considering the malnourished urchin his brother is starting to resemble. The urchin they're _both_ starting to resemble. He braces again, but the woman seems uninterested in smirking. She is too busy smiling at Kadar with all a mother's love.

(Though they have been in the desert for a lifetime, Malik still remembers _mothers_. Last night he dreamt of his own mother and her stew. He woke up to Kadar sleeping practically on top of him, and felt his hunger more than his loss.)

"We're out of food," he says now. "Do you have anything you could give us? I'll work for it," he adds, before this woman can strike him with the same beggar-curse.

"I will too," Kadar pipes up.

"You're too _young_. He's too young," Malik says.

"Am not. I used to help Mother clean the house while you were with the sheep. I cleaned the whole kitchen once."

Malik says, exasperated, "That's not the same thing. This is a different kind of work."

"Why's it different? You don't even know what you're doing."

"This is adult stuff, ok? Look, you're the lucky one. You can sit and wait for me. I'm the one who has to do the hard part."

"Neither of you have to work," the woman interjects with dancing eyes. "Wait out here…"

"Fahima?" A man, presumably her husband, appears in the darkness behind her shoulder. He is as taut-thin as his wife, as his child: brown skin painted over bone with nothing to soften the impact. With his clean-shaven face he could be thirty years old or sixty-five. Impossible to tell—Malik can see only that he is tired, that exhaustion billows out over this entire family in waves. "Fahima?" the man says again, but this time he is talking to their unexpected guests and everyone knows it. "Who is this?"

"Travelers," she says, gazing somewhere by his feet. "Looking for something to eat."

The man is silent for a long while. He looks at his wife, his child, at the leathery skin wrapped about his hands. He is silent so long Malik begins to wonder if this isn't his way of saying no, if he is waiting in stern silence until his unwanted guests give up and trudge away. But they _can't_ trudge like this…!

"I'll work for it," Malik says. "I can pick crops or watch herds or…I'll work if you want. We just need a little bit." Fahima's husband appears unmoved.

'"Cause we're going to Damascus," Kadar adds. "Malik's gonna work and I'm gonna learn words and school things. But we didn't take enough food 'cause of the Templars burning everything and now I'm hungry. My shoes are fine, though," he insists. Malik wants to smack him. Stupid six-year-old brothers!

"Stop talking so much," he snaps. Kadar crosses his arms and pouts.

"Templars, huh?" The man scratches his chin. He glances sideways at his wife, shrugs. "Let them stay a night," he says. "They can sleep here if they keep out of the way. Just for one night, though. We aren't an inn…"

"Thank you," Malik is quick to say. Dinner, and rest, taken inside a house for once! He remembers his mother's cooking and his mouth fills with spit on cue. Such thick stews she used to make, even during lean times when the sheep were too few to slaughter. Such spices, such heavy broth. Probably this Fahima woman won't be quite as skilled a cook, but _still_—Malik is so used to dreaming of stew at night.

"Say thank you, Kadar," he says, dazed by their good fortune. But Kadar doesn't answer, and when Malik snaps back into focus he sees that the woman has taken his brother by the hand to lead him inside, as a mother might her son.

_-i-_

The house inside is dark, cramped despite the lack of furniture. Hot, too, with air sitting thick and still despite the window. Malik helps their host feed the goat; the man is silent and the goat ravenous over the handful of scraps. Both humans and animals show off all their ribs. Fahmia stays inside, stirring an odorless concoction while her child naps fretfully in a pile of blankets. Kadar has been tasked with keeping an eye on the baby, but mostly he chatters to their hostess about sheep and brothers and rocks for throwing, and the respective benefits of each. When Malik reenters the house he has to stand in the crooked doorway for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and he watches Fahima beam at his brother.

The baby wakes up, whimpers, reaches again for the breast. "In a little while," its mother coos. It drifts back off to sleep, a small bundle half-lost among the rags.

When the man comes back inside his wife serves the stew. It's as lacking in flavor as in smell. Malik and Kadar sit against a wall, separate from their hosts, and guzzle it down nonetheless. Food touches empty bellies once more; the act of eating is painful, and amazing. The man watches them over his own bowl, warning with hard eyes not to ask for more. They don't, but Fahima serves them a second helping anyway. Kadar is so eager he chews like a sheep, noisily and with his mouth half open, and Malik has to stomp on his foot out of sheer embarrassment.

The stew really isn't that good, though. There's no meat, just some mushy vegetables, a potato or two. The broth might as well be water. After two bowls, Malik is still hungry. They were very _small_ bowls, honestly…tiny portions, even by Malik's diminished standards.

After dinner the child makes its hopeless whine and finally Fahima moves aside to give it milk. Shifting to his assigned place by the door, Malik thinks back to Kadar as a baby. When he was hungry, he yelled so loud it alarmed their parents. But it's hard to yell when hungry. Even now he doesn't think he has the strength himself. What must it be like to live in a place where you never have strength enough to scream?

The house grows pitch-black with nightfall, even darker somehow than the world outside. Malik has grown used to stars, but now when he looks up he sees the flat nothing of a ceiling. Weeks of walking have left his limbs sore but able, and the softness of the blanket underneath him feels wrong. Being in a house again isn't as comfortable as he'd remembered. All it's doing is reminding him of what he's already walked past.

Where _is_ he? What house is this, what desolate land? Why is he here, and not at home? As long as they were in the desert Malik was busy with the work of survival, but now that they have reached some semblance of civilization he is overwhelmed with memories of what civilization was like…

His chest tightens. He feels the scream he'll always have pulsing at the bottom of his throat. Restless now he turns on his side, towards the huddled shape that is his fast-asleep brother, and whispers, "Sorry." Not that he's sure what the apology is for. Maybe it's for a lot of things. None of this was ever supposed to be in Kadar's life.

Sleep will not find Malik in this house, all barren heat, all poverty. It seems harder to breathe; the air clenches against his lungs. He stares back up at the ceiling and for the first time in all the weeks of travel has nothing to do but remember that he's scared.

It would be nice to cry. If only he could.

A whispered conversation tilts into his ears just then, and grateful for the distraction he tilts his head with it to listen. Fahima and her husband are still awake, sitting by the far wall, the baby sleeping between them. No doubt this is a private conversation between man and wife, no doubt they wouldn't want him listening in—but Malik has never understood why people have such difficulty keeping private things _private_. How can he help but eavesdrop, when the words are right there?

"…keep them?" he hears their host murmur. Fahima's response is a gust of air, too soft and quick to catch in full. Malik closes his eyes, forces himself to take more even breaths. "How? Look at your son…"

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe just one of them. Maybe just the little one."

"So our own will die in his place."

"No," says Fahima, but she has none of a mother's fierceness. She speaks strong words with fragile hesitation, with a hopelessness that reflects in her slumped shoulders. "He won't."

"Look at him and tell me…" says the man, and he has all the fierceness his wife lacks. "If we take in some urchin off the road, how will he be any better off?"

Fahima drops her voice even more. Malik strains to overhear. "…so young…dangerous, out there. We could keep him safe."

"No. There's no way. Should we wait for the crops to grow? Should we wait for the rain?"

"This year," she whispers. "This year, I'm sure of it."

"And…last year…the year before."

"Allah won't let us starve."

"But we are starving."

She reaches for him. "Children," she pleads. "Just children…"

"No," he repeats. "No, no. Not our children. I won't make my family suffer for them."

"They will…to Damascus? Impossible, they'll never…you know that they will…"

"So let them," he snaps. "Better them than my son. The world is harder than it was. We can't save every orphan the Christians leave behind."

"They're children," Fahima says, dully.

"Someone else's children," her husband argues. His tone hardens. His words harden, too. "I won't sacrifice my son for them. We'll give them some food in the morning, point them towards town."

"Town," Fahima repeats, not a little bitterly. "You know what welcome they'll find there."

"I do." The man leans toward her, urgently. His fingers rustle through the darkness, tucking the blankets in against the child. "Look at your son. Tell me it's worth risking his life to save another. Tell me he won't be even hungrier if we keep some stranger's child here. Fahima. Look at your son and tell me what you expect us to do."

Malik waits for her next argument, her next gust of air. But nothing comes, and when he finally dares crack an eyelid open he sees her bent over her child, stroking its pale face. "Darling one," she croons. Malik stays awake an hour more, willing the conversation to pick back up. But only silence meets him.

_-i-_

Dawn casts the world in red. Malik stands by the door, watching the sun watch him back. The cloth bag slung over his shoulder is heavy with the water jars, and with enough food to last another day or two. Their host tells him to look for the village, a few miles past the next hill. "Someone there might have something else to give," he says, but he says it without promise or hope. Fahima stays towards the back of the room. She glances at Malik every now at then, even manages to tell him faintly to "Stay on the road, it will lead you towards Damascus", but she won't look at Kadar. Not even once.

And by the time the sky has turned from red to blue, Malik and his brother are on the road again.

"They were nice," Kadar says in a mumble, speaking around the bread in his mouth. He holds a small piece in both hands and nibbles at it in contentment. "She kept smiling at me last night."

_I want to hate them_, Malik thinks. _Father, let me hate them._

"But their baby was so quiet, Malik. Maybe they should've fed it more."

_I want to hate them._ But…

"_Kadar is your responsibility. It is your duty to keep him safe."_

"I wish they'd given us more bread. I'm still hungry. Why'd they give us so little? We told them we were traveling really far."

"They didn't have a choice," Malik says finally. "You have to help your own family first. They have to keep most of the food for their own kid, just like Mother used to save us meals before she fed anyone else."

"Oh." Kadar digests this. "They were really poor, right?"

He pictures the baby, silent and hollow-cheeked. "Yeah. Really poor."

"Are we really poor?"

"Just for now. Once I find work we'll be fine."

"Ok." Kadar finishes his bread, chewing thoughtfully. "Maybe when we're not poor we can give them some money or something. They were really nice. "

"They were," Malik agrees. "I'd like to thank them some day."

(And he would—he's sincere in his desire to help. But his father's words are still in his ears, and he knows now that he would let a hundred people starve, if doing so would guarantee his little brother one more meal.)

_-i-_

They reach the village around midday. The 'village'. A couple dozen decrepit huts, clustered around a narrow offshoot of the stream: it does not bring much of their old home to mind. The water is oddly brown and blocked in several places by garbage. About its banks lies mud, purple-brown and smelling foul. Half of the houses don't even look lived in. The ground has been baked into dusty flatness, with deep cracks from which wilting grasses sprout. There aren't any animals that Malik can see.

They stop at the first house anyway, though it looks in even worse repair than Fahima's; their current food supplies won't last long, and they desperately need whatever these villagers can spare. The dirt in front of the door has been bleached white by the sun, and if the weeds blocking that door are anything to judge by, there hasn't been much attempt at upkeep. Malik gives the cloth bag to Kadar for safekeeping and knocks, preparing his speech: travel—food—willingness to work. The door is pulled open by a man in prayer cap and beard…an image of Malik's father, which gives him hope. He gets halfway through his speech before the door slams shut again.

He stands there, bewildered. After a moment Kadar whispers, "What happened?"

The situation at the next hut is much the same. And the next. And the next. Several times no one even opens the door, though he can hear people moving about inside. The whole area smells rank, and the odor combined with the heat is making his head swim. What sort of place is this? Hadn't their father always spoken about the hospitality of their people? In Christian lands this door-slamming, ignoring-guests thing probably happens all the time, because what else could one expect from Templar places? In _Christian_ lands—so Malik has heard—people walk around naked and eat pig flesh. But here? His father had allowed guests when sick, when tired, and had been gracious to a fault each time. His father had spoken of it as a matter of honor, and his father was never wrong.

"Malik," Kadar says after the fifth failed attempt. "Maybe we should go."

"We just need some supplies," he growls out. "This is stupid. Let's try another house." But the next house, when they see it, is clearly abandoned and missing half its roof. "Maybe we should try on the other side of the stream." Kadar pulls on the edge of his tunic. "There's a bunch of houses over there we haven't stopped at yet…" Kadar tugs again. "What?" he asks finally, looking over his shoulder at his brother with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe," Kadar says again, "we should go." This time he points. Malik, still confused, looks up. And realizes the village hasn't been ignoring them after all.

A few feet behind them stands a cluster of three boys, maybe a year or two older than Malik. Though this village is undoubtedly their home, they look no less shabby for not having traveled weeks to get here: dirty tunics, dirty faces, hair hanging in clumps where it hasn't been shaved down to the skull. Each of the strange boys is lean in a stripped-down, malnourished sort of way. None of them look particularly friendly.

And all three are staring at them. Tailing them as they go from house to house.

"Ignore them," Malik mutters. "They're just trying to act tough." Boys in their own village used to gang up on strangers too, but in their village there were adults to control the situation. Not so in this strange desert hovel, apparently. He turns to look over the stream again. All they need is a little more bread, and then they can leave—

"Malik," Kadar yelps, and before Malik can react—before he can so much as turn back around—something sharp cracks against the back of his head and he stumbles forward. Kadar yelps again and darts forward to steady him on his feet. Stunned, he rocks back on his heels and puts a hand to the painful lump on his skull. His fingers come away splotched with red. Blood? He looks down and sees a rock by his feet, where there hadn't been a rock before.

Laughter breaks out from the group behind them. "They have rocks," Kadar whispers, and Malik wonders dazedly how he managed to miss that fact a moment ago.

He fights for courage. "What do you want?" he demands, which sends the village boys into another fit of snickering.

"Hey, beggar," one of them calls over. He's the tallest of the three, and the healthiest-looking. There's signs of his attempt at growing facial hair. "Hey, you piece of shit. Who said you could come here?"

"What?" Malik stares at them. They're speaking the same language, but he feels as disconnected now as he did with a Templar barking curses in a foreign tongue. "We're traveling. We're going to—"

"Who said you were allowed here?" another boy interrupts. This one has a face peppered with bruises and a runny nose. "Huh? You have to ask permission. Beggars can't just wander in like they _belong_."

There are newly-remembered swears aching on the tip of Malik's tongue, but the lump on his skull aches more. Kadar is clutching the back of his tunic again, eyes wide.

"Hey, beggar boy, we're talking to you." The first boy sounds less amused and more annoyed. "Be respectful of your betters!" he says, aping words he's obviously heard before. "You don't belong here. This village doesn't want beggar scum."

"Yeah," adds the second, "it's gross. Ugh!" and he waves a dramatic hand in front of his nose. "You stink! You'll make the whole place smell."

Malik bristles—he's done his best to keep himself and his brother clean, hasn't he? And what about these boys? They don't look much cleaner!

"Look at him staring," the second boy crows. "Idiot. Idiot, don't you know how to talk?"

"He's a beggar," the third boy points out. This one, Malik notes, is barefoot and shirtless. "He's probably too dumb. Think he knows where he is? Look, they're both idiots. Hey, beggar, did your mother screw a camel? Is that how you were born?"

"Malik?" Kadar whispers.

"It's ok," he mutters. His voice wavers a bit. "Don't worry. We're going now."

"Listen, you son of a whore," says the first village boy. He uses nasty words with no sense of respect, as if he's been around them all his life. "We don't want your stink here. Understand? Or are you too dumb?"

Malik says, "We couldn't make your village smell any worse than it already does." He pauses, considers, then adds, "And you're the one with a whore for a mother," because it feels appropriate given the situation.

Then the first boy throws another rock. This one almost hits Kadar full in the face.

"Piece of shit!" someone shouts. "No one wants beggar filth here."

"Fine," Malik hisses, thinking _none of those rocks better hit my brother_. "Fine, we're going. Alright? We'll leave—" and he turns around and there's another boy standing behind them, arms akimbo. His sneer isn't as worrying as the wiry strength visible in his limbs. Without looking Malik knows the other three are coming closer, too.

"Now where are you going?" the first boy says. "Because wherever it is, they don't want you there either."

"Don't be stupid. It's none of your business where we go."

The third one yells, "You can't talk to us like that!"

"I can't? I didn't know there were rules for talking to ugly donkeys." He puts a hand on Kadar's shoulder and turns him around. "Let's get going."

But the first boy throws another rock, aiming for just past them. "You can't go anywhere yet," he says, grinning strangely. "First you have to apologize for being so rude."

"Screw off," says Malik, tiredly.

"What was that? Did that sound like an apology?"

"What should we do now?" Kadar wants to know. "Can we go?"

Malik hesitates. He looks at his brother, who's still clutching their bag of food. Then he bends down and grabs the same rock that's already smeared with his blood. "Just start walking, ok?"

"Are…um…are they gonna let us?"

"They'll let you. Go back to the main stream and wait, I'll meet you there. Ok?"

"But I don't wanna go alone."

"Kadar, it's fine. I'll meet you there. Remember, you said you'd trust me."

His little brother looks unconvinced, but his feet move forward as if of their own concern. He glances at the fourth boy as he moves past him, equal parts shy and daring. "You'll catch up soon?" he asks.

"Really soon," Malik promises. Kadar nods and keeps walking.

The fourth boy does move to block his path. But then a blood-splattered rock cracks him in the shoulder and he whirls around, teeth bared in a snarl. All the village boys are geared into raging action now—all these twelve or thirteen year olds, hungry and angry and stuck in a bare part of the world. As Malik had guessed, none of them bother to chase after Kadar, already scurrying down the road. None of them bother when there's an easy target closer by.

Malik balls his hands into fists and waits.

_-i-_

The stars are out again this night. Neither clouds nor ceilings to block them from view. The sky is one thing the desert does well: little water, little food, but an endless breach of black and gold. Allah's beacons, all along the world from one edge to the other, waiting for those who have lost their way. Malik knows he is lost, but the beacons aren't helping. He's doing his best, but this desert is so wide. Sometimes it feels like he is walking in circles. Sometimes it feels like Damascus is merely a fragmented fever-dream.

Still, even in this dream there are solid things. Kadar, for one. Even at Malik's most confused he knows he will find his brother. Even if they stay in this strange sky-desert for the rest of their lives. There's comfort in the purpose: Malik fulfills his duty, keeps Kadar safe, and in return he's never as empty as he might otherwise become. If there's nothing else, there's the two of them. If everything else is ruined, this one thing will hold.

Kadar is waiting by the bank of the stream, at the slight widening stretch that ultimately splits in two. The hills block the ugly little village from view, and the chilly night-winds ripple at the water and at Kadar's sandy hair. Malik can see his brother crouched in strained uncertainty; he's made one of his protective piles of rocks, and occasionally drops one into the water by his feet.

"Hey," he calls, wincing. Kadar looks up and his face brightens. Malik makes his careful way over and sits down—still careful—with his back to the village, his front to the water. He's sitting in a patch of mud, but he doesn't really mind.

Kadar, he knows, must be bursting with curiosity, and it's impressive that he's able to wait even a few minutes before bursting out with, "I knew you were gonna meet me here, Malik. You said to wait and I did, see? No Templars or anything but I was ready for them if they showed up. Did you beat up all those boys? Their village really stunk, I bet you got them all. You shoulda. They shouldn't try to fight you, right, Malik? You won, right? I know you did. I know you're really tough."

"Sure," says Malik. He's glad that the stars aren't bright enough to really throw his aching body into clear view; he's glad Kadar can't see his blackening left eye, or his swollen jaw, or the ring finger he's pretty sure he broke throwing his first awkward punch. That finger hurts a lot, anyway…quite a bit of him hurts a lot, and if it wasn't for being an adult he'd probably be yowling for the rest of the night. It still sort of sounds like a good idea—Malik wouldn't mind throwing himself face-first in the mud and screeching until the throbbing stops.

"Did you win?" Kadar presses. "You didn't look scared at all. I wasn't scared _either_, though, 'cause you weren't. I'm almost as brave as you. That stupid village. We don't even need their food, right? Bet it all tastes bad. I saved you some bread and cheese and I didn't touch it even though I'm pretty hungry because you were so brave. D'you want it? I saved a really big piece."

Malik isn't sure he can open his jaw wide enough to swallow bread, much less chew it, and anyway the thought of food is making him feel sick. "Maybe just some water," he manages, and Kadar eagerly pulls out one of their jars from the cloth bag.

"What _happened_?" his little brother demands once he's finished drinking. Ohh, the water is so sweet and cold… "How'd you get past them?"

"We fought a bit," says Malik, working his jaw with one filthy hand. He's more worried about the new rips in his tunic than the swelling in his finger, and isn't sure if that's wise. "One of them ran away when I bit his hand."

"You _bit_ him?" shrieks Kadar, delighted. Malik shrugs (and then regrets moving sore shoulders).

"Well, his hand was right there." He neglects to mention that both his own arms were being pinioned behind his back at the time, so biting was one of few options. "I kicked one of them in the face. Worked pretty well. They were all cursing a lot…an old man finally came outside and yelled at them, so they ran off. He didn't say anything to me, though."

"Huh." Kadar leans back, basking in his own awe. "You fought off four people, Malik."

"For a little while. They would've beaten me if that man hadn't shown up. I was getting tired…" Malik looks at the odd bend in his ring finger. "I'm not that great at fighting," he says quietly, mostly to himself. "I'd like to get better."

"So brave," sighs Kadar, oblivious.

Malik smiles, weary but not worn. There's water, and food saved for when the bruising along his ribs and stomach fades, and his brother's cheerful chatter. They're alone in a grimy, empty land, where even Allah and His teachings seem too remote to count. Are they any closer to Damascus than they were last month? Who knows. Too hard to say.

And yet there's a sort of solace here. And yet there's a sort of peace...


	5. Part One: Chapter Four

AN: This chapter is long. Like, twenty pages long. A lot of that is description, which I loath as a general rule, but it was pretty important for this chapter. Also, I should probably mention that I'm using only the main game's canon, and ignoring the side games (which I'm told are terrible). All I know is I've seen a picture of Al Mualim from one of them wearing, like, yellow and purple robes, and it was just the worst thing ever.

Chapter title was once again lovingly borrowed from Khalil Gibran**_. _******

* * *

**_A Garden Among the Flames _**

Something of a pattern forms. The road begins to curve through more of a human-touched place, with stone houses clustering around ragged, rancid offshoots of the stream. Malik—whose eye stayed swollen for days, whose finger still aches at night—has learned his lesson well, and avoids the villages as best he can. Sometimes at night he can see lights and hear people, but banging on doors and asking for shelter is not an option any longer. They sleep out in the open, surrounded by sand and insects and stars, even with houses nearby. Fahima's hovel was the last bit of kindness Malik expects to see.

But their food runs out, again and again, and he can't keep Kadar going on water alone. So, when he has to, he leaves his brother secure behind a rock or tree or sand dune, and continues his desperate search. He gives the villages themselves wide berth in favor of lone houses on the outskirts, little mud huts with thatched roofs cowering under mountains fantastically high. When he finds these houses, he knocks, and gives his speech. Sometimes it works.

Malik isn't blind. For all that he is quick to describe himself as _traveler_ and not as _beggar_, he knows what he looks and smells like. Those morning washings have fallen off; he just can't get his brother or himself as clean as he wants to, and anyway what's the point? There's no one to scold them, or tease them, or _care_. There's no one who will notice an extra layer of dirt.

In fact, it's when he's at his most disheveled that people seem most inclined to give him anything. Stale bread, fruit gone soft, slivers of suspicious-smelling meat: Malik takes all of it, driven by his hunger and the hunger of his brother. He hates a lot of things about this new life, but the uncertainty most of all—he never knows when he'll be able to go back to Kadar with food in hand, and when he'll have to go back with only promises of empty bellies and restless nights. Kadar looks so nakedly overjoyed every time food appears; it turns Malik's stomach, especially since he almost never comes back with enough for both of them to share.

"What about you?" Kadar will ask, mouth crammed full. "Aren't you gonna have any?"

"Oh," Malik always says, "I'm not so hungry. The people that gave me this let me sit for a meal with them while I was there."

And Kadar accepts this. He hasn't yet realized that his brother is an expert liar.

_-i-_

"A lot of people on the road today," Kadar comments. He's scurrying ahead of Malik, kicking at rocks, energetic after a decently sized breakfast. Malik lifts his weary head to consider the road, which has become extremely narrow as it winds its way against the side of a mountain. The desert sands have been left behind in favor of scrubland, all stubby bushes and rock. The mountain rises to their right; to their left, a great ravine, and the stream curling below. The waterway's broadened into more of a river, but there's no way to reach it; Malik's mouth aches with thirst, but he refuses to pull out one of the water jars. Who knows when he'll be able to find a place to refill?

"A lot of people," Kadar says again, darting ahead to see around the next bend.

"Don't get too far ahead," Malik warns. The road has gotten more and more crowded over the last few days: men in dusty robes, women draped in black with only the eyes left clear. Every now and then someone will ride past on a horse, and everyone walking will press back against the mountainside to let him pass. Malik always clamps a firm hand on his brother's shoulder when this happens. The other travelers keep to themselves, and no one's sharing any food, so after the first excited day he's stopped caring about their encroaching back on the normal world. He just follows the crowd, which is following the road, which is going…somewhere…

Kadar is back with his report. "Looks like the road starts going back down towards the water," he says, "and there are stables coming up. Hey, maybe we can ride to Damascus!"

"You know we can't afford a horse."

"But maybe…oh! Malik, look, we're so high up. I can barely see the _ground_."

"Stay away from the edge. You'll fall."

"Will not. I'm being careful."

"Stay away from the edge, Kadar."

"_Fine_. I'm gonna go see what's up ahead."

"You just went to see…" Malik lets his voice drop away. His little brother is so energetic today, and yet all _he_ wants to do is sleep. The ground is parched dry, and even if they could get near the river there's not enough mud to soften anything. No place to sleep around here, but that's all he has on his mind. He's trying to watch Kadar, to make sure the six-year-old's fancies don't send him scampering right off the cliff, but his head keeps sagging forward of its own will. His eyes, dark-rimmed with exhaustion the last time he saw his reflection, keep losing focus. The world splits into fuzzy brown chunks. He strains to keep up, legs pumping hard to get nowhere at all.

He's just so _tired_.

(Kadar had a decently sized breakfast. Malik didn't eat at all.)

"Brother?"

He blinks. Was he sleeping standing up just now? Kadar is back, looking at him a touch uncertainly, and the other people part around them without comment or glance. Malik feels incredibly shaky on his throbbing feet.

"Are you ok?" Kadar asks.

"I'm fine. Just tired from walking uphill." There isn't any food in their bag, Malik knows without looking.

"Maybe you should eat something. You look kinda pale."

"I'm not really hungry. I ate at the last place. The one that gave us that bit of onion." He didn't eat at the last house, and no one gave him anything. The slops for the family goat were sitting in the open, so he helped himself after the door was slammed in his face.

"Are you sure? You never eat with me anymore."

"I told you why, remember? I usually get asked to sit for meals when I go. Like how Father used to do if someone came by during dinner." When was the last time he ate anything? It feels like it's been _days_…

"But you…" Kadar hesitates. Worry clouds his open face. "You don't _look_ good."

"Don't be rude." Malik gives his brother a gentle push. "Keep walking. The path's too narrow to stop here."

He waits until Kadar is a little ways ahead before following his own advice. He lifts his foot up. Puts his foot down. Catches his breath. Repeats. Wonders in a distant way at the ringing in his ears.

His head bobs down again. Brown dirt. Brown rocks. Brown tufts of grass. All the brown is making him dizzy, so he lifts his head. But the people around him are just as brown, in their robes and scarves and frowns. The water below is dark with silt, or runoff, or something. Something. Where did Kadar go? Right, up ahead. Near the sheep pen, only he shouldn't be over there because he isn't yet ten. Father will be irritated.

Maybe, Malik thinks, he could stop for a second. Not long. Maybe he could stop and take a quick nap against this—what is it?—this mountain, for a bit. He's _awfully_ tired. Not even hungry, really; between food and sleep he'd like the latter more. A quick nap and then it's off to Damascus.

"Kadar," he sighs. Can't sleep yet. Can't sleep 'till he's caught up to his brother. That's the rule. He's got to keep his brother safe. Then he can sleep. After he knows where Kadar went. After that he can—

_No, damn it. _Malik bites down on his lower lip, hard. Hard enough that his lip tears open and starts to bleed. The sting and the salt snap him awake. His head starts throbbing in time with his mouth, but he's more concerned with keeping out of that bizarre fog. He fades out again and he'll be the one to stagger off the cliff.

But Malik has a job to do. He shakes his head to clear it, and then hurries to catch up.

_-i-_

The road meanders up and down the mountainside. Then it slants downwards, and they find themselves walking with high walls of rock to either side. There are occasional houses, stables, old guard towers with eagles nesting at the tops. The crowds thin and thicken, seemingly at random. At one point they find themselves alone on the road for the first time in days, and just as Malik is wondering where everyone vanished to so quickly, he sees the troop of soldiers coming towards them.

Fortunately there's a thicket of weeds, blanketed by the mountain's shadow. He yanks his brother by the arm and pulls them both into the dirt: they cower there, silent, until the sound of boots striking gravel fade away. The soldiers were wearing brown shirts, Malik notes, and speaking Arabic—but still. They were _soldiers_, who knows from what side. What _are_ the sides? Malik has never been able to figure that out, in all the weeks of roaming. Either way, soldiers are trouble. Kadar has a white-knuckled grip on his shirtfront, and neither one comments on Malik's having to pry each finger loose, one by one.

They dust themselves off and keep walking.

The road lifts again. Now the river—for it is unquestionably a river at this point, and a large one too—is back to being far below them, cutting through the peaks and valleys. It had been such a tiny little thing in their village! But here, wherever here is, it has been given power.

Kadar spots a cluster of stone ruins around the road's next bend. Old archways, worn smooth and featureless by rain and wind, loom overhead. There's more shade here, more grass and actual dirt than sand, and when Malik looks up he sees thick clouds moving overhead, beginning to turn grey. He frowns: rain will fill their water jars, but they don't have anywhere to escape to when it comes.

His stomach roars. There'd been some food a night ago—no, two nights ago—three? Whatever night, there'd been a group of travelers, boisterous and maybe drunk, not that Malik knows the signs of such an immoral act or anything. They'd been friendly in their loudness, in their instance that traveling was safer the larger the group, and had dragged the brothers into their circle as the sun sank behind the mountain: "You two," one man had slurred, "only haven't been robbed because you've nothing for anyone to steal."

But one of his companions had stared darkly at Kadar and murmured, "Don't be so sure of that. Be grateful no slavers saw you."

Malik hadn't been sure what that meant, but knew he didn't like it, so he'd said hotly that he was keeping his brother safe and doing a fine job of it, thanks to Allah above. The strangers had all laughed, but it'd been friendly still, which was rare these days. As rare as food, which they'd been equally generous with, giving large potions of a greasy stew to both boys. "It's disgusting, though," someone had shouted, giving the cook a shove. Which was then returned. Which spread into all manner of dirty jokes. Malik understood just enough of those jokes to clamp his hands over a protesting Kadar's ears, prompting more laughter.

With the stars sparkling overhead one of the men produced a small bottle, filled with a sloshing liquid that looked like water but smelled far worse. The men all drank from it, despite the smell, and Malik turned down the offer only after a significant and uncertain pause. Even if those men had been drinkers, and therefore sinners risking Allah's wrath—they weren't _evil_, even with all that. Malik remembers his father's strict following of the Laws as set by the Prophet. He himself has been shown only one path towards righteousness, and yet the kindest people he's met in days are clearly out on different roads. It's something to think about, Malik decides, when his head is clear enough for heavy thoughts.

All in all it was a comfortable night, and for the first time in the while he'd gone to sleep with a full belly and without worry over meals, or lack thereof. In the morning the men had gone their way and the brothers had gone theirs, and Malik had been genuinely dejected to say goodbye.

He is growing sick of saying goodbye.

Added to that is the fact that a full meal, as desperately needed as it had been, only served to waken his hunger come next morning. His dreams of food had been oddly absent lately; Malik found himself tired and disinterested, even in food, even in Damascus. Now his stomach has been reminded of what it isn't being given, and it aches to make up for lost time.

One of those hunger pains causes him to stop underneath one of the stone arches, chest heaving as he fights for breath. Kadar has gone ahead again, and he struggles to hide his weakness so that his brother won't be alarmed upon return. The darkening sky brings with it a cool breeze and Malik tilts his head to catch it. He's bedraggled and lost and probably starving, but he can still take comfort in an errant breeze. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend this is home.  
"Malik! Brother, hey…"

Malik forces his eyes open. Kadar is back, dancing a bit on the heels of his feet, nervousness or excitement or something close to both shining in his eyes. "Malik," he says, "there're more stables coming up, and—and then there's a village…"

He glances around. "That explains all the extra people on the road. Give me a chance to catch my breath and we'll go around."

"No, but, um," Kadar is still dancing. "I think this is a big village. It's all fenced-in."

"What, like a city?" _Sayyid _Hamid described the great stone walls surrounding Damascus once: impenetrable, impossible to scale, tall enough and thick enough to block any attack. Could this be…?

"Yeah, and it's got the mountains all around it. The road goes right through. I don't think we _can_ go around. Um." Kadar hesitates. "There're guards."

Malik brightens. Walls and guards—this _must_ be Damascus! "Come on," he tells his brother, and then despite his hunger and his exhaustion he's half-running, running to see towers stabbing at the sky…

He sees the stables first, old wooden things with a couple horses grazing out front. Then he sees the walls, and they…aren't stone. They're made of a reddish wood, and while they look sturdy they aren't _wide_ enough to mask an entire city. Malik slows, feet scuffing against the dirt, and feels so tired he wants to collapse. Kadar stays by his side, looking every inch a nervous colt caught between running forward and away. "See?" he asks. "Those guards are wearing white, though. Is this Damascus? Are they Templars?"

"They're too dark-skinned to be Templars. But this isn't Damascus. Just another village, I guess."

Kadar sighs. "Are they gonna throw rocks at us again?"

"If they do we'll throw them back. Come on." And Malik takes his brother by the hand. They follow the crowds up to the wooden gates, and then through their narrow opening. On each side of that opening stands a guard, dressed in odd clothing Malik doesn't recognize, hand resting on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. The robes, he sees as they pass by, are tailored differently than those of the Templars: they're tied at the waist with red sashes overlaid with leather, layered over darker breeches. Both men have a strange silver triangle strung about the chest. Both men are wearing hoods—_cowls_, Malik corrects himself, dragging the word from some crevice of his mind—that jut over their faces in sharp points. Both men have hard eyes, emotionless eyes, that slide over the crowds passing through. Malik almost expects a hand to clamp down on his shoulder, but the guards allow him to enter the village unhampered. With not a little relief he steers his brother into what is surely another tiny, wretched-smelling collection of huts.

Then he stops, astounded. The crowds part around them and at his side he hears Kadar gasp. This is not Damascus. But this is not just another village. This place is…_amazing_.

It lies wrapped about the mountain, the ground smoothed away in layers to allow the road's passage. At the first tier, where they stand now, are houses—dozens and dozens of houses, some as tall as three stories. It's a _poor_ town, from the looks of the people roaming the dirt streets and the musty scent in the air, but still: dozens upon dozens of houses! Wood, mud, and clay buildings stacked next to each other, forming narrow alleyways. The road offshoots several times, and Malik cannot follow all its twists and turns. His own village was so much smaller…

He takes a hesitant step forward. There are more guards standing nearby, and as he looks around he sees soldiers at almost every stretch. They all stand with hands at their hips, waiting…though waiting for what, he can't hope to guess. They all wear the same wide-and-red robes, but some have grey cowls and some white; some have markings about the chest that others lack. Beyond the guard post he can see that a second part of the village is built a layer above the rest, on a ridge of flat earth that protrudes out over the first tier. The path splits to use the gentler slopes on either side, and meets again at a bright red flag decorated with patterns he doesn't recognize.

The villagers dress and act normal enough, moving through the alleyways as if they belong. There are wooden stands set up against stone walls, bare bits of beam showing from roofs where the thatch has fallen away, benches crowded with gossips. But there are too many guards here for this to be a 'normal enough' place. As Malik stares about him he sees other men, mostly older, who wear the same white outfits but layer them further still, with baggy, black robes covering much of what's underneath. These men, and there are quite a few of them, stand out as Other even to Malik's uninformed eyes; most of them are walking up or down the main road, as if the village itself was not their destination. Their robes are more decorated than the stripped-down version worn by the guards; red and white threads loop about the hemlines in complicated patterns.

"Wow," Kadar says, breaking the silence. "It's busy. Is this a market?"

"Let's keep going. I want to see where this road leads."

They climb the gentle rise to the second tier. Here the road splits again, into smaller sections. One of them seems more crowded than the rest, and Malik surmises from watching the state of those upon it that this is the road that will allow them to leave the village and continue on. But most of the black-robed men are taking another path, in the opposite direction, and for some reason Malik wants to know where they're going. So he points Kadar in the right direction and wanders deeper into wherever they are.

The second layer is as crowded with houses as the first, and the view down into the valley where the first rests is impressive. But the third layer, where the road leads next, is much smaller and has only one large building sitting at the far end. On the left-hand-side is the mountain; on the right, a cliff leads to a sheer drop. Malik glances in this direction and is taken aback by the otherworldly beauty of the sight: far, far below, the river so wide as to almost seem a sea, surrounded by massive hills flecked brown and green. The sun glints off the water whenever it pokes past the clouds.

"Wow," Kadar says again. He takes a curious step forward, but Malik pulls him back.

"Careful," he says, needlessly. The cliff is blocked by more guards; in fact, there are guards everywhere along this road, standing stiff and watchful. There aren't as many normal villagers on this small level, and when Malik looks behind him he notices that the main town is blocked from sight by curves and hills. He considers turning around, but there are three black-robed men still following the road. So he takes a few more steps in the direction of those men, and the road curves around another bend and starts to climb upwards but Malik doesn't follow it because—

because…

"Oh," Kadar gasps. "Oh, _wow_." And all Malik can do is stare dumbly and nod his head.

Because the road continues upwards, and far above them, past a few more buildings and a real wall with a metal gate, there sits a _palace_.

Finally Malik is confronted by towers that scrape the sky. Finally he witnesses such an impossible thing made real. It makes him dizzy, looking that far up into the air and still seeing stone. But the palace is more than just towers: there are domes, balconies, walls with carvings he can see even from far away. It's all made of grey stone, flecked with white-and-red flags, and it sits atop the mountain, cloaked with storm clouds in a cowl of its own.

"It's a castle," Kadar marvels. "Does a king live there? Does Allah?"

"Probably not Him," Malik says absently. He can't tear his eyes from the view: the palace is so _big_! There are so many sections!

"Must be a king," Kadar decides. "There's so many guards and that big gate and stuff. I bet even _Sayyid_ Murtada would want to live there. Maybe they'll let us stay."

"I don't think so." The talk of guards, and the growing chill to the air, remind Malik that they cannot stand here gawking, castle from heaven or no. "Come on," he says, forcing himself to turn a shoulder to that gorgeous haven, "Let's go back down to the main part and find somewhere to wait out the rain. Might be an inn or something. If I offer to wash dishes maybe they'll give us something to eat."

"Lamb," Kadar says dreamily. "And milk."

Malik steers his brother back down the path. He says gently, "Bread and water for now. Maybe some cheese or some vegetables." They make their way back down the winding road, moving through crowds that ignore them completely. But Malik can still feel eyes on his back, and knows that this village's guards are watching them at every step.

"Where are we, Malik?" Kadar asks. He stops by a row of clay houses, leaning against each other like a row of grizzled and drunken old men. They are tiny huts, with bits of wooden beam sticking free from the crumbling clay, but they look lived in, and someone's attempted a flower garden in the available crevices. Against the last house in the row is a stone bench; two women sit there, faces completely hidden behind yards of fabric, chatting in low voices. Their dresses are fraying and their headscarves the sort of faded grey that comes from over-washing, but still they both seem to fit into this place of earth and wonder. A third woman steps out from a narrow passageway further down the road, hips swaying in that strange woman's way that allows her to keep steady the large pot on her head. One of the seated woman calls out a cheerful, "_Salaam_!" as the third one passes by. In front of the houses, on the other side of the tapered road, the cliffs fall into the village's first level; the women, even seated, can watch the cluttered roofs of the houses below.

It feels like home here, Malik realizes. It feels like their village, meager and old and for its inhabitants, the whole world. It just so happens that this world includes layers and mountain castles.

"Where are we?" Kadar asks again. He's staring at one of those red-white flags, which is waving in the breeze from the other side of the road.

Malik frowns at it. There's a strange symbol printed there, not quite a triangle but not quite anything else, either. Under it are more strange symbols, but these at least he can recognize as words, clumped together as they are. Not words that mean anything, though. He squints at them a bit, more for pretense, not wanting to lose face in front of his brother. The shapes do not magically reform into something recognizable, something with reason, and he hadn't expected them to—he can't read, after all.

"We're…" He glances around. "We're near Damascus. I think."

"Are we lost?"

"We can't be lost if, uh, we know where we are."

"But I don't know where we are."

"I do."

"Yah, 'cause you're ten." Kadar nods knowingly. "So, where…?"

"Like I said, near Damascus." Malik glances around again. Then he points. "We're by that tree," he says firmly. Kadar pauses a moment, considering this. Then:

"That's not really a tree, though, Malik."

"Of course it's a tree. You've seen trees before, haven't you?"

"But trees are tall. That looks kinda like a shrub."

"No, it's a tree."

"But it's so small!"

"So is your _face_!"

Another pause. Then:

"Um," Kadar says, confused. "What?"

"You'll understand when you're older," Malik says, lofty and wise. Kadar is duly awed.

"Wow," he says. "I hope so."

_-i-_

They wander back down to the base of the village and stand next to a makeshift market by the massive fence: a jumble of wooden stands and items laid out for purchase on the ground. Small crowds drift about the area, haggling and hawking in turn. Malik is comforted. His own village had a market, much the same as this, and he knows the rules for such a place. Finally, ground he recognizes. It's nice to know there are solutions again—there's bread to be bought if hungry, cloth to be bought if cold, small trinkets and good luck charms if in need of some extra salvation. Malik ignores that last one, because he knows his father had always considered such things to be superstitious and blasphemous nonsense, but the first one grabs his attention right away. People are selling vegetables, spices, various fried things. There's even a butcher's stand, and the smell of roasted meat covers the whole area in a teasing ambrosia-fog. That smell alone is enough to make Malik dizzy; one glance at Kadar's open mouth proves that his little brother feels much the same.

Some meat would be _wonderful_. But the butcher isn't likely to give it away for nothing. Malik frowns, glancing up at the graying sky. They need to find shelter before the storm hits, but finding it won't be much easier than finding food. He tries to sift through the solutions, to choose wisely as his father might have done. But he's been trying to do that since the village burned and it hasn't gotten any easier. Malik doesn't know what his father would have done in his place, or whether his choices have been the right ones. There's been no one to tell him if and where he's gone wrong. All he knows is that his father, smart as he was, would have been able to do _something_…but his father, smart as he was, is dead. There's only Malik. And Malik is tired of being hungry.

"Wait here," he says to Kadar. "Don't move 'til I come back."

His firm steps cover the patches of grass and dirt as he stalks close to the stands, circling around not the butcher but a small stand a ways past, sitting at the little rise where the road begins to tilt upwards. This stand is basically some warped boards nailed together, and a good gust of wind could probably take it to pieces. But Malik likes the sight of the produce jumbled there: tomatoes, cucumbers, bunches of parsley and thyme. Garlic is strung about the sides.

He waits, not wanting to look too noticeable or too eager, knowing he's marked as a beggar even as he pretends to be a local boy. The man behind the stand is tall and peaked: his face marred by blotches, his eyebrows knit into a tense frown over eyes caught in a permanent squint. Apparently he's trying to watch over both the vegetables and a small collection of clay pots and vases, sitting on an old blanket next to the stand. Intermingled with the pots are smaller baskets, made of straw, and these are drumming up enough interest that the seller keeps having to turn his back on the food. Malik considers grabbing a bulb of garlic while the man is distracted, but he hasn't forgotten the guards. He knows they're watching him lurk, and twists a greasy lock of hair between his fingers in an awkward attempt at looking unconcerned.

The wind blows against the exposed skin on the back of his neck, and he shivers. The air tastes even stronger of rain, which he'd be delighted for if the mere thought of the potential drenching didn't make him want to cough. He _can't_ get sick. He can't let _Kadar_ get sick. But where are they going to hide from the rain? The people of this village haven't driven them out yet, are apparently at least tolerant of unkempt strangers in their midst, but that's as far as the courtesy extends. No one is offering them a place to stay, a fire to gather around. The vegetable seller sees Malik gazing hungrily at his stand and scowls before turning away.

_Dammit._ Malik is glad he is learning to curse. The foul words fit their surroundings so well…

"Malik? Could we buy a tomato, maybe?"

He turns in surprise to see Kadar standing at his shoulder, looking at the vegetables and fidgeting around. "I told you to wait over there," he snaps, more annoyed at his failure to provide being witnessed than at his brother's disobedience.

Kadar says, "I know but."

"You have to listen to me, Kadar. You said that you would!"

"I know but."

"Allah _says_ that the younger brother must obey the older. How can I watch out for you if you never listen?" He's angrier than he should be, and he knows that, but he's been standing here being ignored by everyone but the wind, unable to help his brother, unable to help _himself_, and now Kadar's watching him mess everything up and that's _horrible_…

"So just stay where I told you to stay," he shouts. "Just stay there and behave."

Kadar hangs his head. "I will," he mumbles, "but I wanted to give you my coins first."

"Your what? What coins?"

Kadar holds out a grubby hand, his dirty fingernails tapping against the thin metal of the two coins he's clutching. Malik stares as his brother offers them up: even put together the silver things aren't worth all that much, but still. Just seeing money again reminds him of home, of his mother, of the way she would press a coin into his palm and tell him what to fetch from the market. _And be careful how they charge you_, she'd always say.

"Where did you get those?" he manages. A nasty thought strikes him—did his brother steal them out of someone's pocket, someone's robes? He tries to imagine fighting off this village's hundred guards, all hungry for Kadar's thieving hands, and winces.

But Kadar looks unconcerned. He smiles a touch uncertainly at the coins, and holds them out again for Malik to take. "Someone gave them to me," he says. "One of the men with the black robes. I was waiting for you just like you told me to, I _was_, promise. But then this man saw me and gave me those. I dunno why. He handed them to me and told me to be brave and, uh, go with Allah, and something about protecting the inno-, uh, the innocent. I dunno who _they_ are but I didn't tell him that 'cause I thought maybe you could use the money to get some food, only I didn't want to move because you told me not to. But I kinda want a tomato, Malik. Do you think that would be ok even if I moved?" He looks anxiously at his big brother's incredulous expression. "I didn't move much. And I think we're going with Allah already so it's ok. We are, aren't we? 'Cause if we are then maybe we could get some tomatoes. And then when we find the innocent we can give them a tomato too."

Malik takes the two coins from Kadar and studies them. They're old, flecked with dirt and sweat and who knows what else, carved with words he can't read. But he knows how much they're worth: enough for plenty of vegetables, and maybe even a couple of those fried meat-on-stick things being sold a few stalls down.

"Can we?" Kadar fidgets again. "I'm hungry."

"We can get a bunch of tomatoes," Malik says, still stunned. He looks at his brother, all dirt and torn clothing and face stretched thin from hunger, and can't help but burst into laughter. He feels half-crazed, and if Kadar's expression is anything to go by he sounds it as well, but still the laughter bursts from his cracked lips in shrill peals. All this time he's been trying to keep Kadar clean and normal-looking, and yet now that he looks like the homeless urchin he actually is, people are giving him money!

_He makes a good beggar_, Malik thinks, not necessarily pleased, still laughing in a manic sort of way. _No one's giving me anything. I guess I look too old._ But Kadar is still young, and the stresses of his new life aren't yet enough to dull the shine of those wide eyes. The lines newly creasing his face only add to that hapless look of his. Malik, calmed down to a low giggling now, wonders how much money they'd make if he planted his brother on a street corner and told him to look happy. _Even Fahima was willing to starve for him…_

"Ok," he says, reaching out to ruffle Kadar's hair with one hand, the other clenched hard around the coins. "I'll go buy us some food."

"I helped, right? Even if I'm not ten yet?"

"You helped," Malik promises, hearing the echo to his words. "You helped a lot." And Kadar smiles with pure, untouched pride.

There's a line at the vegetable seller's: an old man moves gnarled fingers over the produce in careful thought. Malik is careful too, watching as the man selects two onions, three tomatoes, and a large bundle of some wispy green spice he doesn't recognize. For this purchase he hands the seller two coins of the type Malik is clutching. He sighs with relief. He'll definitely be able to afford a couple tomatoes, then, and some onions as well. Maybe even a juicy pepper if he haggles well. Hope—and raw hunger—rise in his chest.

The old man finishes and moves away from the stand in a tangle of brown robes. Malik steps up, struck somber by the importance of the selection: what to buy? Are tomatoes really the best use of the money, or will they get more out of one large cucumber and a hunk of cheese? He could try a different stand, pick up a loaf of bread and a bunch of dates. Or maybe he should move to the other side of the main road, where a man is selling large bowlfuls of a spicy-smelling stew, oil floating to the surface of a broth thick with beans. He looks at the coins in his hand again, biting at his lower lip.

The seller watches him with his face skewed sourly. His hands, marred with the same light blotches as his face, are pressed to his hips, and he scowls at Malik's unwashed, unfamiliar face. "Hurry up and choose, boy," he says.

"_Salaam_," Malik says absently, lost in his deliberations. One onion and two large peppers? Three potatoes and one onion? Finally he decides on four tomatoes and a small, shriveled onion. He chooses the largest, ripest tomatoes and hands his coins to the seller. But before he can turn away from the stand with the food nestled in his arms, the seller brings one hand down hard against the wood of his stall. The coins fall from his grasp to land among the vegetables.

"Not enough," the man says. "You need double for all that."

Malik stares up at him. "It's a small onion," he says, in case the seller wasn't aware.

But the man shakes his head. "Not enough," he says again. "Tomatoes cost more than this."

"That last man bought even more for the same price. I saw him." Malik clutches at the produce in his hands. The onion's pungent odor is giving him a fresh headache.

"That was him. He's a man of good standing and his price is different. You're just trash off the street with stolen coins."

"They're not stolen! I saw how much you charged that man and I gave you the same amount."

"I'm not going to haggle with you, boy. You can go sit in the gutter and eat shit for all I care."

"We need this," Malik says, voice low with urgency. Did people in his village ever rob strangers in such a blatant way? "I paid a fair amount for what I'm taking. It's a _small_ onion—"

"If you don't shut up and pay me what I'm owed I'll call the guards," the seller threatens. "I won't have the likes of you making off with what I deserve."

Malik hesitates. His hands are trembling with anger, and hunger, but the man's threat is all too real. Slowly—each slight movement wrenching him open—he drops the two smallest tomatoes back onto the pile. "Is that enough?" he demands.

"Watch your mouth or I'll take it all back. Were you raised by dogs that you don't treat your elders with respect?"

Malik's eyes widen, then narrow. "Is that enough, _Sayyid_?" he asks, as polite as he can manage. His cheeks flush red with shame as the seller smirks and extends a hand. Unbelievably, he waits for Malik—who's trying not to drop his remaining two tomatoes and onion—to pick up the silver coins from the stand and put them back in his grasp, though both his hands are free.

Still flushing with embarrassment and anger Malik moves away from the stall, trying to consol himself over the remaining food. It's enough to last them a little while, and Kadar will be happy enough. He motions his brother over, hands him the larger tomato and keeps the smaller one for himself. The onion he puts away for later, in case no actual dinner is found.

"This is good," Kadar says, though he's yet to take a bite. Instead he turns the tomato around in his hands, studying it, making it last. "If we find more money can we get more?"

"I'll buy fresh vegetables every day," says Malik. _Though from a different stand_, he adds silently, and turns to glare at the vegetable seller behind them. The man doesn't notice, distracted as he is by a customer annoyed at the remaining choice of tomatoes.

"You're charging _that_ much for these ugly things?"

The seller throws out his arms in protest. "I have to make enough to survive. Can I control a bad harvest?"

"You can control your own prices, can't you? For these tomatoes you want to charge so much? And for these cucumbers? Am I a king that I can afford to throw away money on such a poor selection? Listen, every time I come here you overcharge me but I've never said anything because at least the quality is good. But maybe I'll find someone else with tomatoes worth that much coin."

"Not my fault," the seller whines. "Some urchin bought up the best of my stock just now."

"Which isn't my fault," the irate customer replies, and moves to another stall further down. The seller grumbles, smacks at the wooden counter with his palm, looks up and sees Malik watching him. Just like that, he becomes incensed.

"Urchin boy," he bellows, coming around from behind his stand and storming towards Malik in long strides. "Thief, give those vegetables back." Malik is left caught off guard, managing only to step in front of his confused little brother. The vegetable seller points a long, hairy finger in his face. "Don't think you can steal from me! Give those back or I'll beat you senseless."

"I paid for them," Malik says, slowly since he's afraid he might stutter. But the words find their way, clear and true, and Malik is left marveling at the uses of his clever tongue. "I didn't steal anything. You took my money. If you want the vegetables back, give me my coins back first."

"Your money?" the seller roars. "The money you stole, you mean. Why should I give it back to you? I'm not about to reward a thief!"

"That money wasn't stolen. It's mine to do with as I want."

"Little liar. This village isn't fit for the likes of you. Stealing money and trying to steal my vegetables!"

"I didn't steal anything!"

"Give me back my vegetables and maybe I won't call the guards on your thieving head."

"Malik didn't steal anything," Kadar pipes up from behind Malik's shoulder. "Someone gave me the coins and I gave them to him."

The seller turns his glare onto the younger brother now. "Someone _gave_ them to you? You rooted them out of someone's pocket, you mean! Beggar filth with no sense of…" Then his eyes fall on the tomato in Kadar's hands. "Ah! The biggest one!" he cries. "You rotten little bastard, stealing my best things…" He reaches out with that hairy hand and grabs for the vegetable, intent on ripping it free.

Malik smacks that hand away before it can come anywhere near his brother. The vegetable seller, in the next instant, smacks him across the face.

For a minute, no one reacts. Malik can hear the other man's rough breathing even as he rubs his sore cheek in mute surprise. He's aware that a crowd has formed around them, but the stinging of the slap distracts him from looking around. Then Kadar drops the tomato and suddenly has one of his many rocks aimed and ready. "Don't hit Malik," he shouts, and throws the pebble. It bounces off the seller's shoulder, breaking the shocked pause.

"You bastard," the seller snarls again, and moves to grab him, but Kadar dances just out of reach, another pebble at the ready.

"You're the bastard," Malik says furiously. "We didn't do anything to you."

"Thieves! I'll call the guards…!"

"No need." At the deep voice, both the seller and Malik turn in surprise. There really isn't a need to call the guards, because the guards have already found them: two of those soldiers in their strange white uniforms, one young and missing a few teeth, the other older and heavily scarred. Malik risks a glance around, and notes that the crowd has drawn back a respectful step. The vegetable seller drops his gaze to the ground. Malik, tired and sore and disgusted, stares at the newcomers without bothering to flinch.

"Well?" the younger guard says. His cowl, a musty grey, drapes over his face, hiding much of it from view. "You're disrupting the market."

The seller rallies himself: "These little shits stole from me."

"We didn't steal _anything_," Malik says hotly. "I paid him for the food. The coins are still at his stall!"

"Those coins were stolen."

"No, they weren't. Someone gave them to my brother."

"I saw him eyeing up my stand earlier," says the seller. "Obviously didn't have a coin to his name. Then ten minutes later he's back, and mysteriously he has a couple! He's a thief, I know he is, I saw him try to take more tomatoes than he could afford."

"You're a liar," Malik says, "and the son of a dog."

"You see?" the other man cries, "you see the sort of person he is? Foul language, stealing, and—and the brat hit me with a rock!"

'"Cause you hit Malik," Kadar murmurs, but the seller talks right over him in his righteous indignation.

"Is this the sort of protection Al Mualim offers us? Does he protect foul-mouthed criminals who harm innocent people? Filthy beggars skulking around, stealing my produce and throwing rocks-!"

"Alright, enough," the younger guard says abruptly. He shoots the other guard a disgusted look, though Malik isn't sure if it's disgust at him, the seller, or the whole ridiculous situation. "Go back to your stand. We'll handle this."

"You should cut off his hand," the seller offers, though he begins to back up even as he talks.

"Those are our coins," Malik says. "Make him give them back to us."

"Enough," the guard says again, and Malik realizes with a nasty lurch that the soldiers are going to side with the vegetable seller, that they're going to believe his word because he belongs here and the A-Sayf brothers do not. "You can't just walk around throwing rocks at people," the guard says.

The older guard sighs, shakes his head. His cowl, a clean white, slides low over his face as well. "We should tell the Master," he says.

"Right," says the younger one. "We'll take them up there now." And he reaches over to grab at Kadar's shoulder, fingers digging into skin as he starts to drag him close—

Malik doesn't remember grabbing the rock and he doesn't remember throwing it, but suddenly the guard is staggering back with one hand clamped to the side of his face. A quiet gasp echoes about the watching crowd. The older guard makes a grab for Kadar, but the boy darts away, back to his safe position behind his brother. Malik grabs another stone; he knows without looking that Kadar's rearmed himself as well.

"Damn!" The younger guard moves his hand away, letting blood stream unhampered down his face. "What is a street urchin doing with that sort of aim?"

There's a nervous titter from the crowd. Even the older guard has to hide a smile, despite his comrade's flushing scowl. "They're only children. Perhaps you need to learn to duck, Brother," he suggests. Malik raises an eyebrow—family? But they look nothing alike.

The younger guard scowls even deeper. "Get over here," he growls at Malik, and makes another grab in his direction. But another rock sends him leaping quickly, with a barely-smothered yelp (Malik chose a rather large one the second time around). "What in Allah's name!" he protests. "Here, quit laughing and go get him yourself!"

"Yes, yes," says the older guard, still chuckling. He moves forward…and a second later all but dances back to avoid his own skull being cracked open. The crowd pushes closer, interested. Malik scoops up another rock and stands watching them all, defiant. Even if those men are armed with swords.

"Like a wild dog," the younger guard breathes in frustration. "Can't get too close or he'll bite!"

"He isn't so fierce, not at his age. And look how thin they both are."

"Oh, yes? And that is why you're staying oh-so-carefully out of his throwing range?"

The older guard acknowledges the crowd's murmured laughter with a roll of his shoulders. "This is ridiculous," he says, in exasperation and amusement.

"I know," Malik says. "Really stupid, huh?"

"Be quiet, boy. Where are you finding all these rocks?"

"You told me to be quiet," Malik says, with not a little smugness.

"Ridiculous," the younger guard mutters. He presses his gloved hand back against the side of his head. "Nearly brained by a little kid."

"Practice more," his brother—apparently—says evenly, "or else don't complain. No one's fault but your own if you can be bested by a child." Raising his voice to be heard over the grumbling that comment sparks, he turns back to Malik. "Your aim is impressive for a no-name beggar boy," he says. "Where were you trained?"

"Don't know what you're talking about. I was just keeping him away from my brother."

A thin smile. "You're your brother's keeper, are you?"

'"Course he is," Kadar says, as if this should be obvious. "He's _Malik_."

"Either way. You'll need to come with us now, the both of us."

"No. We didn't do anything."

"Are you going to stand here throwing rocks all day and night? You should obey your elders, boy. This isn't a request."

"Don't care. We're not _thieves_."

The guard's amusement fades to a narrow-eyed impatience. "Listen, boy—"

"What's going on? You're _asking_ them to obey you?"

The new voice that cuts through the din has an instant respect, though it wavers oddly between pitches. The crowd grows respectfully still and moves further back, but Malik notices the guards both stiffen, ever-so-slightly. He turns around, expecting either a religious scholar or a soldier rippling muscles, trying and failing to place that young voice to either choice.

He turns around, sees the speaker, and is instantly bewildered.

"You sound more like nursemaids than assassins," scoffs the—the child? Because the newcomer doesn't look any older than Malik; if anything he looks younger, because he has none of Malik's starveling edge. Muscle over sharp edges, eyes bright not with hunger but confident health. He's wearing the same clothing as the guards, tunic layered over breeches, though his are a full grey and he lacks a sword: a child playing in his father's clothing. His cowl is loose about his shoulders, and his hair is a light, sun-streaked brown; his skin is lighter too, almost _Christian_ in its whiteness. But, Malik supposes, that speaks more for his having a roof over his head than anything else. He would of course be fairer skinned than someone who's been wandering in the desert for weeks on end.

The boy tosses his head, hands on hips, and Malik can't help but picture a strutting rooster in all that arrogance-without-reason. "They're just a couple of beggar brats," he says with a mean roll of his brown eyes. "Pathetic to have so much trouble with them."

Malik is ready to laugh, and doesn't only when he sees that no one else seems to find the situation funny. Quite the opposite, actually—the two guards are both standing with backs straight and shoulders squared…in politeness? deference? deference to a boy Malik's age?

"Altair," the older guard says, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"What business of that is yours?"

The frown deepens. "Watch your mouth. You don't outrank—"

"But I beat you in the training ring last week," the boy says, so breezy and so brash that Malik sort of wants to hit him.

"This doesn't concern you, Altair," the younger guard breaks in. Malik wonders, does he sound nervous? Can that possibly be right? "Just a couple urchins throwing stones. Nothing for you to do here."

"I thought," Altair says, "that Al Mualim might be interested. I think he still might be interested. Assassins who can't handle a couple of _children_ stealing food?"

The guards both go silent and wary at the unfamiliar name, but Malik has had enough. Assassins? Training rings? One good rock could knock this _child_ flat! With hands clenched against his hips to mirror this interloper he glares with growing irritation. "We didn't stealanything. And anyway, no one asked you!"

Altair smirks. Even his teeth are white and straight, which somehow makes him more annoying. "You keep quiet until someone tells you to speak, urchin."

"Why should I take any orders from you?"

"Because I'm an assassin," Altair says, in the same tone one might use to clarify the sky's being blue. "In this village you show the Brotherhood respect."

"How can you be an assassin?" Malik isn't entirely sure what it is assassins do, but he knows it involves daggers and secret missions and people _twice this brat's age_. "You can't be an assassin if you're, like, as old as I am."

"Does being a dumb beggar also make you blind? I'm way older than you are."

"Mm…what do you think, Kadar? Think he's nine?"

Kadar peeks out from behind Malik's shoulder. "Maybe nine and a half," he decides.

Altair's eyes flash. "I'm older than both of you," he growls.

"Really?" Malik growls back. "Because I'm ten."

There is a pause that sparks with tension. The two boys glare at each other, and for a moment the whole world seems to be holding its breath.

"I," hisses Altair at long last, "am ten and a _half_."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying. You're the liar, stealing food you don't deserve."

"I didn't steal anything!"

"That's what beggars do. They steal stuff."

"Stop _calling_ me a beggar."

"Don't have to if I don't want to. Everything is permitted."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're a beggar and no one wants you here."

"So fine, we'll leave. Wouldn't want to stay in any village with people like you in it."

"Assassins like me, you mean."

"Oh, sure." Malik snickers. "_Assassins_. Just 'cause you pick off your lice before you go to bed doesn't make you a…"

"Shut up," the boy rages, a sudden fire blazing in his eyes. "You're the filthy beggar boy, not me. Is that why you're here? Did your parents make you leave 'cause you're so dirty and worthless?"

"Malik isn't worthless," Kadar protests. "He got us through the whole desert!"

"Fine," says Altair, narrowing his eyes at the younger boy with evident dislike. "Then he's dirty and _you're_ worthless. Worthless little nobody—"

Malik lunges.

His first punch catches Altair by surprise, but the other boy's reflexes are startlingly fast; he dodges the second with ease. He throws his own punch, and because Malik isn't as quick it gets him hard in the chest. He gags and nearly loses his balance, to the sound of the guards' shouting and Kadar's startled gasp. Altair darts forward for another punch, and lands it—and lands his next one too, and it's then that Malik (who can barely think for the ringing in his head and the throbbing in his gut) decides not to stand there like a frozen target and hurtles himself downwards, grabbing at Altair's knees.

The older boy's arms wobble in his desperate attempt to stay steady, but Malik grabs him by those grey robes and yanks. Next thing he knows there's an elbow cracking against his jaw, and he falls flat onto the ground with pinpricks of light erupting in front of his eyes. Altair gets back to his feet and readjusts his robes. "Stupid," he scoffs. "You can't defeat me."

Malik drags his aching body upright. The ringing in his ears has transformed into a lightness in his head, and dimly he wishes he'd had the chance to eat at least one tomato before all this. Altair shakes out his right fist and starts to throw another punch—but stops for some reason, with a furtive glance over his shoulder at the guards. Out of worry? No, Malik realizes as the boy relaxes his fist and pulls his arms into an odd sort of stance. Not out of worry, but because he wanted to copy how a soldier must wield his sword. _Idiot_, Malik thinks, _It's not like he has one…_

But Altair holds this strange position. "You're untrained," he says with another toss of his head. His hands are protecting his chest, but his smirking face is wide open. "I don't even have to try. You don't know anything about fighting."

Malik, who knows neither stance nor style, shrugs and runs forward, clawing at Altair's exposed face with gleeful abandon. The other boy yowls in surprise and pain—dropping his stance in the process—but even then he doesn't let himself be distracted. Instead he grabs a fistful of Malik's hair and tugs. Malik claws at him again, someone trips someone else, and the two boys fall over in a thrashing, tangled mass of limbs and indignation.

"Not—_fair_!" Altair screeches, one arm drawn over his face to protect his eyes. "There's no honor in going for the face!"

"You said everything was permitted," pants Malik, trying to pull his hair free before it can be ripped from his skull.

"Don't quote the Creed! Outsiders aren't allowed to say it!"

"Oh, shut up. Get off my hair!"

"Get off of me first!"

"How am I supposed to get off you when you've got your hand stuck in my hair? I can't move without you pulling the top of my head off."

"Stupid novice questions."

"You're the—_eurgh_—novice."

"You don't even know what a novice _is_."

"I know you are one!"

"Idiot. Quit trying to blind me-…"

Suddenly, in the midst of all the chaos, Malik finds himself getting to his feet—being lifted to his feet by the pressure of a firm hand on the back of his tunic, dragging him free from Altair. But even once he's standing again the hand does not leave, and trying to tug free accomplishes nothing. He glances in front of him, breathing hard, and sees that Altair is being held in much the same way by the same person. The two boys glower at each other, and Malik is pleased to note that while his own chest has become a mass of bruises and his head throbs, Altair's face is scratched a vivid red in several places, and his left eye is already swollen half-shut. Both their tunics are torn and filthy, but Malik's were torn and filthy as it was; Altair's looked clean and new. Ruining them definitely counts as victory.

Internal gloating accomplished, Malik cranes his head over his shoulder to see his captor's face. At first all he can see is the wiry brown beard, cropped close to a square chin. He drags his eyes upwards, blinks to see only one eye meet his gaze. The other, foggy-white, has been claimed by a scar that rips its way from eyebrow to cheek.

The newcomer's one-eyed gaze is too unreadable, too _mystical_, to meet—as if he were a famous holy man, or Malik's father. So instead Malik looks downwards, sees great, billowing robes of a rich black-or-blue. They open to reveal white robes not unlike those worn by so many of this village's people, but these have clearly been made with significant skill and attention to detail. Red silk lines the cuffs and collar, and pours out from underneath a massive leather belt. The sleeves of the black robes are similarly adorned with white. Even the man's cowl is decorated at the edges.

Malik tries again to pull free from this mysterious man's iron grip, but can't. Altair, he notes, isn't squirming but standing still, scowling all the while.

"How strange," the man says, in a voice deep and aged, a voice that pronounces each word with care, a voice well-educated and well-spoken. "How strange to see such trouble break out here, in Al-Masyaf."

The crowd, Malik notices, has dissolved. People rush about them, nervous or embarrassed at being caught staring. The two guards are both rigid, eyes respectfully downcast. _Is this man their general_? Malik wonders. _Is he their king?_

"I was coming to tell you, Master," Altair says, speaking carefully around a split lower lip. "These thieves were upsetting the merchants."

The man sighs before Malik can protest. "Yes, Altair, I've heard the story already," he says sternly. "And I expected my men to be well-enough trained that they could deal with such a minor situation."

"Master Al Mualim," the older of the guards begins, hesitantly and without looking up, "your pardon. Things grew out of our control."

"Always we must strive for control," their master agrees. "And we must prepare ourselves for that which we do not expect." He turns an appraising eye on Altair, who is still sulking but is also trying to look respectful by gazing towards the ground. "I did not expect to see my best novice rolling around on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum," he adds, and even Malik has to wince at the tone: not angry, not frightening, but disappointed, which is so much worse. Altair fights his expression into something neutral, but not before Malik spots the hurt flicker quickly through his eyes.

But rather than apologize or keep silent, Altair decides to argue. "These vagrants started the trouble. The older one attacked me, and he did not fight with honor but cowardice—"

"Ah, your excuses, boy…we will wean you from them yet! Why should you be surprised if your opponent does not fight fair? Has he been trained alongside you? Has he been taught the same notions of honor? Your lessons are meant for _you_ to absorb, Altair. They are not burdens for you to thrust upon others."

Malik watches the hurt flicker again as Altair's shoulders slump. For no reason at all, he feels a twang of sympathy.

Al Mualim looks down at Malik now. "And who is this other child who would behave with such poor manners?" he asks, gentler now that his lecture is done. "This would-be thief?"

"Not a thief," Malik mutters. "Keep telling everyone that. Someone _gave_ us those coins and we got cheated out of a tomato already."

"Where are you from? I know everyone here, but I've never seen you about."

Malik hesitates. "…Dunno," he admits finally. "Far. Across the desert. We're going to Damascus," he adds, "so I can find work." He glances across the way to a nervous Kadar, and realizes that more soldiers, silent ones, have crept up while he was fighting to flank his brother on either side. This master's personal men, perhaps. "Leave him alone," he says in warning.

"You're quick to protect your brother," says Al Mualim. "Is there a reason why?"

Malik blinks. What kind of question is that for an educated man to ask? "He's my _brother_. I have to watch him."

"Indeed." Al Mualim smiles. "A heavy burden for one so young."

"Malik's ten," Kadar says. "That's adult."

"Do your parents say as much?" Malik frowns, doesn't answer. Al Mualim, whoever he is, grows more thoughtful. "Are they why you've left your home so far behind?"

Malik drags his gaze back to Kadar. Something in him twists, and twists hard. He feels the scream, the scream that's been lurking all these weeks, scratching at his throat, wanting air, wanting _out_.

But he will not cry. He will not be weak in front of all these strangers.

"They're dead," he says. "Christian soldiers killed them."

"It was Templars," Kadar says, and the guards all seem to look at him with just a little more interest. "They came and burned our house. And my good tunic," he adds, quiet and sad.

Malik's stomach twists again at the sight of his brother looking so miserable. "Let me go," he hisses to the bearded stranger holding him, squirming afresh. "Leave us alone."

Al Mualim releases his grip of iron. Malik staggers forward, steadies himself, and adjusts his tunic with such severity he wants to roll his eyes at himself. What dignity is this? He could fix his clothing all day—it won't change the fact that he is dirty, skinny, probably stinking. A stinking beggar, surrounded by men who want either to kill him or give him pity.

He turns back to Kadar, opens his arms and lets his little brother cling to him. "It's all right," he says. "We're going now." He glares at Al Mualim. "Away from all these _thieves_."

"But I dropped the tomato you gave me," Kadar whispers. "Sorry, Brother."

"It's ok. I've still got one, and the onion. You can eat that."

"Don't you want some, though?"

"Me?" Malik shrugs. His chest, his head, his hands…every bit of him aches in heavy throbs. But as much pain as he's in, he isn't hungry. His stomach has once again given up its ravenous edge. A good thing, Malik assumes. Maybe he's adapting to only occasional meals. "You can eat it all," he says, feeling eyes plastered to his back and wondering when the onion lost its taunting smell. "I'm not really hungry."

But this is more than Altair, forgotten and surly in the background, can apparently stand. "Of _course_ you're hungry," he cries. "Even your scrawny brother must weigh more than you—"

"Be silent, Altair." Al Mualim frowns at him until he shrinks back, then turns to face Malik. His mismatched eyes scan his face, and Malik has to hide a small shiver: it's so unnerving, having that sightless grey orb look him up and down. It's almost as if it still, on some hidden level, has sight…

"Your name is Malik?" He waits for the nod before continuing, "Allow me, if I may, to ask…does Damascus have any particular significance for you?

_Sky-scraping towers,_ Malik wants to say. Instead he says only, "There's work there. And schools for Kadar."

"And you've no training in combat whatsoever? You've never practiced your aim?"

Malik shrugs.

"You held your own against two of my assassins, and one of my novices," Al Mualim muses aloud. _You did none of that_, Altair's expression glares. "Well, Malik. Let me ask you one more question, strange though it may be: what are your desires in life? What are your goals?"

"To protect Kadar," he answers without hesitation, without debate. "And to kill the bastard Templars who hurt my family."

Al Mualim smiles, revealing nothing though on the surface he looks proud. "In that case," he says, "I would like to suggest you stay here in Masyaf, instead. Stay here and join the Brotherhood. I would be honored to accept such dedicated and determined recruits."

The guards look surprised. The soldiers flanking Kadar shift in place. But out of all of them it is Altair whose mouth drops open in disbelief. "But—Master!" he protests. "He's just another orphan. He's not worthy of your teaching!"

"Were you worthy, when your parents brought you here?" Al Mualim has had enough. He silences the older boy with a look that could crack stone. The scarred eye follows its working brother after a second's delay. "Truly none of us are deserving of what we are given. It is through learning and effort that we repay our good fortunes."

Malik is unruffled by Altair's protestations. He rubs a grimy hand against a pounding headache and tries to think. "What Brotherhood?" he asks. "What do you mean?"

"The Assassin's Brotherhood. We protect this village and the surrounding lands: my men, and I as their leader. We work to save this world from any who might seek to destroy it."

"Like the Templars?"

"Them above all others." Al Mualim folds his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into his wide sleeves. "I can offer you a protected haven here: shelter, food, clothing. You will be taught to fight, to spy, to _understand_. You will gain my wisdom, learn from the most important of texts and scrolls." He lowers his voice, speaks softly, living eye burning with some eternal spark. "And when you are ready, you will kill Templars. Until then I will keep you safe."

Malik looks at him, amazed. What is this? Can he of all people be an _assassin_? Learn to kill? Is it this place, not Damascus, that has his future ensnared in its grasp?

He looks down at his little brother, still reeling. "My brother," he says after a moment. "What about him?"

"There is room enough in the Brotherhood for two new novices," Al Mualim replies, and Altair's scowl, if anything, deepens. "Such earthshaking loyalty should be rewarded, not split apart."

Malik rubs his head harder, but the shock at this strange day hasn't faded yet. If anything it's gotten stronger: it's become a grey cloud hovering in front of his eyes, a pounding beat in his ears. "You'll teach Kadar to fight," he manages. "Teach him to protect himself."

Al Mualim nods. "I will."

"Then…" Malik feels dizzy. What a day this is! "Then I'll join. We both will."

Kadar breathes, "We're gonna learn to kill Templars? And wolves too?"

"And them too. And we'll stick together." As if in demonstration Malik's lips stick together. He totters on his feet trying to force out the words.

"Master, I do not understand." This from Altair-who's-ten-and-a-half, clearly frustrated. His words reach Malik from a sprawling distance, desert-wide. "How can he be made an assassin? He doesn't look strong enough to _stand_."

_Not fair_, Malik tries to say. _I'm standing. This is all so weird that I can't catch my breath._

"No…he doesn't." The Master's voice takes on a sudden frowning edge. From the world's growing darkness he demands, "When did you eat last?"

_Who, me?_ Malik turns on his feet, hears Kadar gasp out his name, swipes his hands at the buzzing fog. _I just ate. A day or two ago. Not hungry, really, I mean it this time. Stopped being hungry so just give it to Kadar._

He turns on his feet again, loses his balance, feels the fog rush up to swallow him at last. He fights it for a minute, but there's no strength left in his thrashes, and when the blackness begins boiling about his body he can do nothing but watch it come.

* * *

AN: Oh, Malik. You can't give _all _your food to Kadar because then you pass out in front of Altair and that's embarassing.

Speaking of the two of them, I think my favorite thing about this paring is that ten years later, they're definitely still spending the whole day trying to beat each other in the face. The only difference is that ten years later when they're done hitting each other they probably end up having angry!sex to finish it off.


	6. Part One: Chapter Five

AN: A shorter chapter, where shorter equals "not thirteen thousand words". More setting-the-scene stuff. Bare with me, we're getting to the good stuff.

Also, a quick note on Al Mualim: his character is one I'm really looking forward to exploring. What we see of him in the game is so interesting: when did he turn against his own Creed? Has he always been twisted? Or was it only _after_ learning of the Apple? Is he just another example of how the Apple scrambles brains, or was he always misguided, or...? My goal for this story is to _not_ answer that question; I don't want there to be a single instance where readers can point to and go, "That's it. That's where he went nuts."

Oh, and yes, Abbas is the Abbas of the game. There's ziltch canon characterization for him so I'm putting my own spin on his personality, but I do want to eventually explain his outright hatred of Altair.

* * *

"_**You might learn something."**_

The ground is too soft: that's the first thing Malik notices. He shifts, restless and achy and too tired to open his eyes, wondering at the way the earth rocks along with his movements. The thickest blanket in the world? He thinks about it a bit, but the pain doesn't fade and the tiredness just gets worse. Malik presses back against the gentle comfort and fades out again.

_-i-_

"Can you fix him?"

"Hush, now. Let the healer do his work."

"But if Malik stays broken then he might _die_. And if he dies then I won't know what to _do_ 'cause I'm only six but he's ten and he can't die yet. You gotta fix him. You gotta tell him to _stay_ with me!"

_-i-_

Droning prayers. Malik moves his lips to form words he no longer remembers. He thinks that he has forgotten his father's face, his mother's voice. He thinks that he has finally lost himself among the fog and the harsh, hot world. But if he thinks hard enough he can still remember Kadar. Resting longer would be nice, would be lovely—he is still so weary—but his duties are not done and his life is not his own. He is the shepherd and the wolves are coming: Malik tilts his head to stare at the horizon and knows that this is so.

He must rouse himself. He must.

_-i-_

"Is he dead yet?"

"You're not supposed to be in here. Master Al Mualim said it should just be the healers 'cause more people would make it too crowded."

"I know what he said. He's _my_ master. And if he said that, then you shouldn't be in here either."

A tiny voice: "But he's my brother."

Smugness in the reply: "We're all Brothers. You're nothing special anymore."

"Malik wouldn't want you in here anyway. You're the one who made him mad."

"And you're the reason he wouldn't eat. Besides, I outrank you and him both. So…is he dead yet?"

"He's not gonna die!"

"Maybe he will. And what if he does? It was him the Master was interested in, not you. You'll have to go back to being a stupid urchin boy—"

"Enough." The new voice is strong as the world. _Father_? "Altair, you should not be here. Return to your place and attend to your studies. If you fall behind you shall suffer for it."

"Yes, Master. I am sorry, Master."

"The trouble with you, boy, is that you're never sorry. And as for you…"

"I want to stay here. I want to stay with Malik."

"Aren't you tired? An assassin must care for both his mind and body."

"I want to stay here."

_-i-_

Malik does his best to wake up, but his eyelids refuse to acknowledge the effort. Exhausted beyond any explanation—he's done nothing for ages but sleep, hasn't he? –he leans back against the soft thing he now knows is a bed, and waits. And listens.

The first voice to speak isn't one he recognizes. It wavers in cracks and gusts, as dry and old as the hand that drifts against Malik's forehead. "Don't crowd so," it scolds. "He needs air."

"But he…" and Malik jerks against the bed because that voice he knows. "But he's still broken?"

The old voice chuckles. "Yes. A bit."

"What if he stays broken?" Kadar asks, anxiously. "What if he doesn't get better? He could be hurting a lot but I won't know 'cause he can't talk 'cause he isn't healed yet, and I'm not a healer or anything, I'm just a little brother, and…"

"You're an assassin-in-training now," the voice corrects, gentle despite its age. It's a voice used to talking to children, Malik decides. A voice used to handling nervous onlookers. "Assassins must be brave in the face of uncertainty."

Kadar wails, "But I don't even know what he _looks_ like!"

"…What who looks like?" and Malik tries to smile. Decoding Kadar can be its own lesson in the unknown.

"Un, uh, uncernany. Is he a guard? If I'm brave in front of him, will Malik wake up?"

The voice makes some half-muffled snorting sounds. "Well, now," it says, still with a warm waver to the words. "Knowledge is the key to eternity, and I'll give you your first lesson. Press your hand here—yes, that's it. What do you feel?"

The stranger's fingers are gone now, and in their stead someone else brushes the side of Malik's neck, their touch careful and soft. After a moment he hears Kadar say in wonder, "There's a…a throbbing."

"Yes. Allah put His strength in all of us, as it is His lifebreath that keeps us alive-…" The voice chuckles again. "Al Mualim would call me a superstitious fool. There aren't many of the Faithful here. Those of the Brotherhood have put their faith in other things behind these stone walls. But rest assured, little one, Allah's strength lives in us, and it makes itself known."

"But what's the throbbing?"

"Allah's mark. His assurance that we still live, for without it there can be no life. As long as you feel His pulse, you are alive."

Kadar presses his fingers against Malik's neck again. "He's got a pulse. So he's…alive? Not dead?"

"Not dead," the voice confirms.

_Not dead_, Malik thinks, and falls back asleep.

_-i-_

The room is chilly and lovely. Malik is warm, all bundled up, perfectly comfortable except for a prickly numbness in his left arm. This isn't the desert underneath the beating sun, and he couldn't be more grateful. He feels clean, with nothing save his arm aching, and for the first time in a long while it doesn't hurt to open his eyes.

He wakes up.

The room stays vague and grey for a moment before settling into clear view. It's a large room, with a tall ceiling and thick walls, and everything made of smooth stone. But it feels rich despite the stone and the chill: there are rugs strewn about the floor, shocks of red and gold embroidery against the muted grey. The walls are hung with tapestries, many baring that not-triangle in bright shades. At the far wall are three small windows, all in a row, iron framework holding in place actual glass. Malik isn't used to windows with glass—how expensive that must be!—and he spends some time gazing at them and the red fabric draped to either side. He can just make out the sky, golden in late afternoon light; one of the windows hangs open a crack, and the breeze blows in smelling sweet.

He turns his head. There's a large, wooden chest of drawers by one wall and an empty set of shelves against another. The wall nearest him is divided by a wooden door, carved and massive. Small tables in each corner hold black vials from which a faint, black smoke drifts out. Malik inhales deeply and notes the pleasant odor.

Then he glances downwards. The bed is far too large for him and he feels swallowed in the midst of white sheets decorated with golden thread. His head sinks deep into the pillow. Oh, how wonderful. How calm.

Except for that pressure against his arm, anyway. Malik frowns and glances at his arm—and has to grin at the huddled figure curled up on the bed with bare feet dangling off the edge. Kadar, in his slumber, has put near his full weight on his brother's arm, which explains the numbness well enough. Malik twitches, trying to pull free, and Kadar stirs awake.

"Brother…?" he mumbles, reaching to wipe the sleep from his eyes as he sits up.

"Sorry," Malik says, voice a bit raspy still. "You were on my arm."

Kadar stares at him a moment, realization dawning. Then he shrieks: lets out a high, delighted squeal that blares through the whole room. "Ma-aa-_lik_," he bleats, throwing his arms around Malik's neck and nearly knocking them both over in the process. "I knew you'd wake up! I told them you would!"

Malik winces, ghosts of his body's weakness coming to the surface. He puts his arms around his brother, as much to steady himself as anything else. "Careful," he says, grinning. "I'm not that strong yet."

"But you _are_, you _did_ it, you slept for _days_ and now you're back up and—Malik, we get to be assassins now! Master Al Mualim said I could start training right away but I didn't 'cause I wanted to stay here. I waited for you." Kadar looks up at him, surprisingly solemn. "I waited for you to wake up. I thought maybe you'd leave like Mother and Father did but I waited anyway."

"I…" Malik swallows. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Kadar clutches at him tighter. "How come you didn't eat enough, Malik? The healer said you were starving. But he said I was ok. You always told me I could eat more 'cause you weren't hungry and I wouldn't have done that if I knew you really _were_ hungry, I woulda given you some…"

"There wasn't enough," Malik says quietly. "And you needed it more then I did. I'm the older brother, remember? I'm the one who has to make sure you're alright."

"How come? How come you're always the one who's gotta save us?"

"Because." Malik puts his hands on Kadar's shoulders and pushes him back, gently. "It's my duty. I promise, though, I won't leave." He looks his brother up and down, marveling in the transformation: Kadar looks clean and refreshed, with nothing of the urchin left but for a certain thinness in his wrists and cheeks. His hair's been washed, and the rags of his old clothing have been replaced by white robes, robes that actually fit. There's a band of grey cloth tied about the waist of his tunic, and on the floor are shoes that look brand new.

"It's really nice here," Kadar says, answering Malik's unanswered question. "Yesterday I walked with Al Mualim—only for a little bit and then I came right back! I only even went 'cause I was hungry and he said we could stop by the kitchens and I wanted to bring stuff back for you but Al Mualim said you hadda eat special for a while so I shouldn't so I ate but just a little 'cause I wanted to get back to here soon-…"

"Kadar," Malik says when he has a chance, "what are you talking about?"

"Brother, this place is huge! We walked down all sorts of hallways and we even went outside to a courtyard where there were soldiers marching and people were having fighting lessons. They were really good. And we went to the main part of the building which has a giant staircase and a garden but we didn't go in there but there's a giant staircase and _books_. The Master has _lots_ of books, Malik. I wanna learn to read some."

"You will." Malik shifts sideways, dangles his legs over the edge of the bed. His own decrepit shoes are missing, he notes, staring down at the brown tops of his feet. "We'll have to adjust. It'll be strange for a while, probably. Being part of a Brotherhood, learning to be assassins…"

"What do assassins do? What's a Brotherhood?"

"Assassins protect. The Brotherhood unites." This voice is neither of theirs, and they both turn to see Al Mualim framed in the doorway. He smiles at them, looming in his robes. "You're awake then, are you?"

Malik nods, awkwardly. "Uh huh. Uh. Thanks for feeding Kadar and, uh, letting us stay."

The Master waves away the gratitude. "There will be time for the both of you to adjust to your new lives," he says. "You're neither the youngest nor the oldest to join, and you're certainly not the first to join unexpectedly. You'll adapt. But for now the healers tell me you must rest, and _you_…" He turns to Kadar. "You are probably quite hungry. Novices eat together and it is almost time for the evening meal. I'll send someone to take you there."

Kadar bobs his head. "What about Malik?"

"He needs to stay in bed for now. Someone else will bring him his meal."

"But…"

"It's alright," says Malik, who in all honesty is starting to feel pretty tired. It's as if he hasn't been sleeping for the past two days straight; he is beginning to be aware of fresh hunger, not as ravenous now nor as all-consuming, but distracting just the same. "You can eat with everyone else and see what assassins are like." When he glances up again the Master is gone, as sudden and as quiet as he came. Malik raises an eyebrow. "See what else you can learn about this place."

"Ok," says Kadar. Malik yawns, and is shifting himself back into the delightful softness of bed when suddenly his brother gives a little squeak of surprise and practically tackles him.

"What the—hey!" Malik falls back against the bed, startled. "Kadar, get off! What are you doing?"

But Kadar refuses to be shifted until after his fingers have pressed against the side of a bewildered Malik's neck. "There's the throbbing," he announces.

"Stop it, would you?" Malik squirms. "You're heavy. What are you even talking about?"

Kadar dutifully slides off his brother and the bed both, landing neatly on the floor. "The throbbing's there," he says. "So you're still alive."

"Uh," says Malik. "Yes?"

"I hadda make sure. The healer said that if you don't have a pulse from Allah then you're not alive so I wanted to check." Kadar puts his hands on his hips and nods, quite pleased with himself. "Now I'll always know."

Malik just sort of stares at him for a bit. He'd almost forgotten: even after the desert, Kadar is definitely still only six.

_-i-_

He falls into a sluggish sleep, tossing and turning despite the soft sheets, and when he wakes up the sun is low in the sky. The light from the windows is dim and weak; Malik rubs at his stomach and hopes his meal is coming soon.

A glance at the rest of the room proves it to be empty but for himself. It's silly—he _knows_ Kadar is eating with the rest of the novice assassins, or whoever, and he _knows_ it's fine for his brother to be out of his sight, especially in a place such as this…but there's still something inherently discomforting about the separation. Even at home they were rarely apart. Malik isn't sure he knows how to be anything but the weary leader of their pathetic little expedition.

He swings his legs around, stands up slow and stiff. His rags have been replaced with a baggy tunic and leggings, plain but comfortable. The room is large and feels empty without Kadar's blaring presence; it's nice not having anyone around to laugh at his first shaky steps, but besides that it feels too silent and too alone. On one of the small corner tables someone has placed a basin of water and a clean towel, so he busies himself with washing for a while, splashing water onto his face and scrubbing his hands. What a luxury, water and towels and clean clothing.

Just as Malik's finishing up there comes a knock on the heavy door, so he goes to open it (moving slower than he'd like). A stranger is waiting for him, a stranger swathed entirely in the robes of the Brotherhood, his face masked but for the eyes. The sword strapped to his waist is so obviously a part of him that it blends itself out of sight. Silently the man bows and holds out a bundle of folded clothing. Malik, distracted by fresh wonderings at the meaning of the little silver triangle strapped to the man's chest, reaches out to take the offering without looking at what it is he's being given.

The stranger turns before Malik can say anything, vanishes down the long hallway and is gone. Malik shrugs and closes the door. Once he's made his way back to the bed, he finally begins to sift through his new wardrobe.

And what an impressive wardrobe it is. Similar to that Altair's set in the greyness of the fabric, but it's been stripped down even further: no silver triangle, and no leather belt. The red strip of fabric that clenches the tunic at the waist is still there, but as Malik thinks back he realizes that the guards had various pouches and holsters fasted to their uniform by way of the leather part. Malik hasn't reached that stage yet, it seems.

But the cloth is so smooth, and the cut so appealing…

Glancing around, Malik spies a long mirror hanging against one wall that he hadn't noticed before. He takes his new clothing over to it and begins to strip, his movements halting in deference to his still-weak condition. He ends up shocking himself when he pulls his tunic over his head: under the robes he's nothing but bones! He stares at the hollows under his jutting ribs, the inward caving of his stomach, the curve of brown, thin shoulders. It's amazing that his legs should have such trouble carrying his weight, when it appears he weighs almost nothing at all.

The last part to his uniform is the cowl. Malik feels foolish putting it on: it juts out across the top, casting dark shadows over his eyes. The full picture is an impressive one, even if he _is_ so skinny that the red fabric can't quite keep the tunic from bunching up. Still, after an admiring moment he lets the cowl fall down about his shoulders. He isn't an assassin just yet.

He's pulled from his studying his reflection by another knock at the door, which proves to be from another masked assassin-Brother-someone. It could be the same one, actually, not that Malik can tell from just the eyes. This one is holding a silver tray, on which rests a chunk of bread and a bowl of delicious-smelling stew. There's also a fresh jar of water. Malik is so distracted by the heavenly smell that he almost doesn't hear the assassin's admonition to, "Eat slow. Healer's orders." He can't even bring himself to look away from the sight to nod.

The assassin leaves, and Malik makes himself comfortable on the bed, forcing himself to drink in the smells before he digs in. It's a small bowl, too small for Malik's ravenous tastes, but the stew is thick and filling, with plenty of meat. He ends up devouring it so fast that he's got a bit of a stomachache by the time he's done.

After that, Malik finds himself getting restless. He's dressed the part of an assassin rather than an urchin, and he feels better than he's felt in forever; Kadar's still not back, and the room is awfully empty. He suspects, from the way he's been told to rest and from the way everyone keeps shutting the door when they leave, that he's not supposed to leave the room until further notice. He suspects that Al Mualim might be displeased with his wandering off. He suspects that his new shoes, boots made of thick leather, might be too stiff to be comfortable for long.

Ten minutes later, Malik pokes his head into the hallway. Seeing no one, he slips away.

_-i-_

The palace is really more of a fortress, Malik muses, not that he knows the difference between the two. He wanders up and down drafty hallways, all stonework and mysterious rooms. He passes other assassins, wearing various versions of the standard uniform. Most of the men are far older, but a few don't seem to be much past their teens. Anyway, no one tries to stop him or ask him where he thinks he's going; in his own uniform he belongs here. After a while his heart stops leaping to his throat at the sight of every stranger, and he adopts a certain strut to his walk that he feels works well with his new position in life.

Not long after that, Malik realizes he's quite lost.

The hallways all look the same, and what furniture he's passed is bare at best: nothing to distinguish one way from the next. He stops at the top of a narrow stone staircase, curious. He knows he shouldn't switch floors—then he'll _really_ be lost—but he remembers the view of the fortress from outside…twisted peaks, turrets, great walls. Wouldn't it be nice to see all that at close range?

The staircase opens up at the bottom, and Malik finds himself in yet another narrow hallway. Unlike the rest, though, the ceiling here has been enforced with wooden beams, and there are more of those small, iron-decorated windows all along the right-hand side. There's still enough light coming in from the windows to give the whole hallway a golden-tipped glow. Intrigued, he follows it to its end at another wooden door, small but carved. Malik hesitates for the slightest of pauses before pushing it open. A flash of green grass and setting sun, and he finds himself outside.

And not alone.

The courtyard is framed on all four sides by the sheer height of the fortress, its massive walls four levels high and dotted with windows, some of them open to catch the breeze. Two other wooden doors, identical to the one Malik's just stepped from, give the yard its only other apparent entrances. The yard is grassy but for patches of dirt where anything green has been worn away. In the center of the yard, a boy around Malik's age is throwing punches at an invisible enemy. Crouched nearby to watch is a third boy, perhaps a year younger.

Malik stays quiet in the shadows, watching as well. The boy has his back to him, but even so, his punches carry an obvious skill. The third boy, if his scowling face says anything, is in resigned agreement. Malik takes a step closer for a better view, scuffing the ground as he does so—

Altair transitions so smoothly from punches to running that it's almost impossible to see the switch. One minute Malik is alone, hovering in the doorway; the next he's being forced to take a step back to keep from being knocked over. In the background, the third boy rises to his feet and walks over as well, less dramatically.

Altair stares at Malik. "What are _you_ doing here?" is the first thing he says.

Malik bites at his lower lip. Out of the three in this courtyard, Altair is the only one with his cowl pulled over his head; he should look silly, but all Malik can think is that it's discomforting to be unable to see the other boy's eyes.

"I asked," says Altair, "what you were doing here. Weren't you dying upstairs?"

"Who's this?" the third boy asks, his deep voice carrying the faintest of regional accents. Because he's let his cowl drop Malik can see his dark skin and his brown eyes, his stern features and big ears. His uniform is almost the same as Altair's, but without the leather belt.

"This is that urchin Al Mualim found," Altair says. "The one who was so weak he couldn't stand."

"Nice split lip," Malik answers. "Does it hurt?"

Altair runs a finger over the pink dot of healing flesh and scowls. "Of course it doesn't hurt," he snaps.

"Al Mualim found you?" the third boy asks. "Usually it's the other way around."

"He felt _bad_ for him," Altair clarifies. "It wasn't because he's got any skills."

"The Master must know what he's doing."

"Of course he does. Did I say he didn't?" Altair narrows his eyes at the still-silent Malik, looking every inch the predator sizing up his prey. _Or_, Malik thinks, _the bully trying to sound tough_. "They gave you a uniform? Don't think that means you'll get to stay. If you don't have any talent then they'll make you leave. _I_ have talent," he adds, as if this was being brought into doubt. "Al Mualim knows as much."

From what little he's seen, Malik can't exactly disagree. "Is Al Mualim your father?" he asks.

"Stupid," Altair announces, and turns his back. "I don't have time to waste on fools. I was practicing my fighting when you interrupted. You can watch if you'd like." He glances over his shoulder, to bare all his teeth in a smirk: "Maybe you'd better watch, urchin. You might learn something."

Malik mutters, "Doubt it."

The third boy sighs. "He'll be even worse now, because he can show off in front of someone new." He scratches at his feathery hair. "But," he says mournfully, "he really is very good."

"So is Al Mualim his father?"

"The Grandmaster is the head of the whole Brotherhood. He's the best fighter there is in the whole world. Altair likes to _pretend_ they're related, 'cause the Master gives him so much respect. Most adult assassins aren't as good. 'Course," the boy muses, "most adult assassins aren't such jerks. No," and he shrugs to punctuate the words, "I dunno who Altair's father is. I heard a rumor that his mother was a _Christian_. They left him here as a baby, probably 'cause no one wants a half-blood baby. I mean, _I_ wouldn't want one."

Malik digests this, watching Altair throw his punches at the air. The older boy has molded his features into a focused frown, but the stiffness of his shoulders proves he's showing off indeed. A half-Christian boy? Here, of all places?

"I'm Abbas," the third boy says after a while. His dark eyes flicker to Malik's before going back to Altair. "My parents were both loyal Muslims. Just poor loyal Muslims."

"Mine too, I guess," Malik says absently. "I'm Malik."

"So did you really fight with Altair in the village? He's been telling everyone you tried to fight him but lost."

"He insulted Kadar. And I might've lost but he didn't win, either."

"Kadar?"

"My little brother. He's gonna be an assassin too."

"Oh." More silent watching. "That last punch was too wild," Abbas calls after a while.

"I know," Altair snaps over his shoulder, but he does steady his aim on the next blow.

"So," Malik asks, "are there a lot of us? Us, uh, assassins?"

Abbas bobs his head. "A lot, and not just here. We protect Al Masyaf, but there are Brothers in the cities too. Even in Jerusalem. Not so many our age, though."

Malik studies Altair's evening shadow. For someone ten-and-a-half he moves so…so fluidly. It's more animal than human, this instinctual flow.

"You'll probably like it here," Abbas says. "You learn a lot, and the Grandmaster is blessed by Allah—"

"Please," Altair scoffs, letting his fists drop to his sides. "Don't insult the Master. Al Mualim doesn't need the blessings of some imaginary god to be strong."

Abbas puffs up into a grey-clad mass of annoyance. "You are definitely _not_ blessed by Allah. Or anyone else!"

"I don't need Allah's blessings either. Relying on gods is the sign of a weak man."

Malik isn't as offended as he suspects he ought to be; Abbas is doing a good job of being offended for the both of them. "So you're not Muslim?"

Altair tosses his head. Somehow the cowl stays neatly in place. "No true assassin believes in any false prophet or superstition. You won't become a master assassin if you keep clinging to your delusions." He ignores Abbas's grumbling, turns to once again regard Malik with that calculating, shadowed gaze. "What about you? Are you a delusional beggar or just a beggar?"

"What I am," says Malik calmly, "is none of your business."

"Fine, then. I don't actually care at all."

"Am I supposed to be bothered by that?" Malik looks at him, steadily, and is surprised to see Altair shift in place. Is it that rare for people to face this brat head-on? After a moment Altair lifts his head, and Malik can finally see underneath his cowl. They hold each other's stare, Altair's glinting with some unspoken threat…

_Prove yourself_, he demands. And Malik narrows his own eyes in answer:

_I will._

_-i-  
_

The sun's setting plunges the courtyard into darkness. Altair doesn't bother with farewells, but Abbas looks over his shoulder as he follows the older boy listlessly away: "See you in training."

Malik hears Altair scoff, "He won't last long enough to start training," and can't help but roll his eyes. The arrogant brat or the dour kid who drifts after him—what is he supposed to do with choices such as these? Hopefully there will be other assassins his age, though the thought reminds him…Altair has clearly benefited from plenty of training. Probably Abbas as well. How far behind is Malik? How long will it be before he can take Altair on and win?

It takes him a while to navigate the fortress's twists and turns, its staggered stairways all the same. There are still other assassins about, and they move as ghosts must, in silent darting and quick glances. Malik feels eyes all around him, watching as he passes by. Eventually, with his still-healing body beginning to burn with fresh exhaustion, he sees a familiar door and hurries in.

"And finally our missing Brother returns." Al Mualim speaks softly, the slightest glinting in his eyes. He folds his arms across his chest, ever-impressive in those sweeping robes, and Malik wonders distractedly just how long he's been waiting by the bed. The next instant Kadar is grabbing at his sleeve and he pulls his eyes away from the Master.

"Malik!" Kadar is clearly very put out. "You were suppost'a stay in _bed_ 'til you got _better_."

"Sorry," he manages. "I just wanted to see…"

"You went out and I came back and didn't see you. It's a big palace and you coulda gotten lost." Kadar grabs at his sleeve again, tugs it until Malik lowers his wrist, presses his fingers against the skin of his underarm. "Well," he says, sighing, "you're still not dead. So I guess it's ok."

Malik raises an eyebrow. "Did you just check my pulse again?"

"I gotta make _sure_," Kadar says. "But it's ok. You're definitely not dead."

Al Mualim chuckles at the back of his throat; Malik flushes for Kadar's sake, because his brother is clearly not aware of the flaws in his logic. "Indeed, an assassin should be curious of the world around him," the Master says. "He should never allow a situation to remain seeped in unknowns. He should search out knowledge…" His face grows thoughtful; he trails off while Malik and Kadar wait. Then he shakes his head. "But an assassin should also be cautious. He should not be rash, lest he bring ill fortune to the Brotherhood. That is a vital tenant of the Creed."

"The Creed?" Malik tilts his head. "Altair mentioned that in the village."

"Yes. You will learn it soon enough, and it will be the most important thing you'll ever know." Al Mualim smiles, gestures towards the bed. "But for now, I suggest rest. And," he adds, "a delay of further exploration until your legs are strong enough to carry you."

"I gotta lot to tell you anyway," says Kadar. "I ate with a whole bunch of people and the food was _good_. There was bread and lamb and I even got seconds. The others said that usually you only get one helping but the Master said I could have more this time. And tomorrow I get to get the uniform like everyone else and—ooh, Malik, you're wearing one! Does it have the hood? Let me see the hood, Malik, everyone else looks so important when they wear it."

Malik obliges, sliding the cowl upwards. The feel of the fabric against the back of his neck and the top of his head still feels strange—feels like it's turning him into some other Malik—but Kadar is thrilled. Even more so when Malik begins striking poses he half-remembers from watching Altair in the courtyard.

At some point Malik thinks to look up and thank Al Mualim for all they've been given, but the space by the bed is empty now. The Master has gone from the room, though Malik did not see him leave.


	7. Part One: Chapter Six

AN: I'd apologize for the updating delay but it was pretty unavoidable. Since my last update I've finished my thesis, graduated university with a degree and everything (they even gave me a cum laude medal which is a pretty big deal for the girl who failed high school math three times) and got an actual adult-person's job working for a newspaper. So I've been a bit busy! Also, original fiction. I wrote something about zombies.

This chapter got split three times before I decided I knew where to end it. This story as a whole was never meant to be as long as it's going to be but, hey, story of my life. I'm not sure I like the pacing here…I think it ends up being more tell than show. But I really like the last bit, which salvages what might've been a pretty boring chunk of words.

EDITED TO ADD: Should mention that _Dai _Faraj actually comes from **skywalker05's** delightful fic, _Paths Not on the Map_. I'm only borrowing. Also if you haven't read that fic yet you really should. Also also I'm having trouble replying to reviews for some reason - but know that they're all very appreciated! Thanks!

* * *

_**Loyalties **_

"There will be time for the both of you to adjust to your new lives," Master Al Mualim had said, promising much in those lives that would require adjustment. And he was right.

The world is changed. The world is _remade_.

Malik spends the first week recuperating, eating and resting and luxuriating against the thick cushions of the bed. Kadar usually stays with him, but he leaves for meals and scampers back hours later with tales of all he's seen in the interim: sparring matches and swords so sharp they gleam, men with blades springing from their wrists, men missing fingers and eyes and ears. The first few days, Malik is content to let Kadar do the exploring for him, because he's still so exhausted that he spends most of his time dozing anyway. It's as if his haggard body is finally giving into to the weariness he'd ignored for months. Now that they've found this unexpected refuge, it's safe to rest.

There are other aches, as well. Too much time alone and Malik finds himself remembering his parents, his village, his days as shepherd. He is caught in a painful loop, and though he shifts about in bed in a desperate attempt to sleep he cannot break out. His mind is so good at keeping details that should have faded fresh, at holding grudges…

But the week passes, and the worst of the hurt subsides, and Malik grows restless. He wants to be introduced to this new world already. Finally, when he is able to wander about the room without growing short of breath, his recovery comes to an end. That night, after the evening meal, Kadar is brought back by an assassin neither one of them recognizes, and the A-Sayf brothers are told to be dressed and ready at the first light of morning. Kadar, who's been given his own set of robes in an identical cut to his brother's, is delighted and spends half the night wondering aloud what the next day will bring. Malik tries to sleep, but his own excitement is, if quieter, no less relentless. The night at times seems endless. There's just so much they'll have to learn!

Come morning they're dressed and ready for the man who arrives at their door, face shrouded in cloth, to beckon them silently into the hall. Malik hasn't quite adjusted to all the mystery of this Masyaf fortress, to the facelessness of this Order. He doesn't like not knowing whether the man leading them down the stone halls now is the same man who'd brought him dinner the night before. But Kadar seems unconcerned, and says with confidence as they descend a narrow staircase that their guide is, "one of the village guards, the Master's private men. He's gotta be pretty high rank."

Malik nods and tries not to be bothered by his younger brother being the better informed: he's just so used to being the leader, and it's a bit disconcerting how _not_ disconcerted Kadar's acting. The six year old has already adapted so easily, and meanwhile Malik's trying to keep up without giving into the lingering weakness in his legs…

But then their Masyaf guide leads them out a small door and they exit the building for the courtyard beyond, and Malik—

Malik stares, stunned. He was unconscious the last time he passed this way, and it all strikes his eyes as new. In front of him, the ground is paved in parts with cobblestones (a luxury he couldn't have imagined on his own) and the courtyard bustles with assassins of every rank and some civilians besides. There are some of the men in black robes, which he recognizes now as Brothers of a special designation; there are other assassins with white cowls or white sleeves or white robes splashed with red decoration.

Most of the men are as dark-skinned as Malik and his brother, judging from what little can be seen beneath all the fabric, but a few are paler and he's reminded of Altair's odd white coloration. Apparently being an assassin isn't limited to one area or group, though Malik has trouble thinking of himself on the same side as Christians. Aren't Christians all Templars, fighting for their devil-king? Isn't that what his parents said?

"Look, Malik," Kadar says, pointing an eager finger. "There's the training ring I saw. When you get trained enough they put you in there and make you practice swords and curses and things."

Malik looks. There's a small circle cordoned off in the center of the courtyard by wooden beams. Inside the circle two men slash at each other with swords—"Dulled weapons," Kadar tells him confidently, "so they don't actually hurt nothing except I guess they still do." The fighters do indeed appear to be bruised and winded, dulled swords or no; apparently they've been practicing a while. Both of them wear grey robes and the swords they wield have basic hilts, but Malik glances around the courtyard at everyone else and knows that he is surrounded by weapons, many crafted to be as beautiful as they are dangerous.

Maybe one day he'll hold a sword, one decorated and impossibly sharp. Maybe one day he really will be an assassin. It's hard to imagine being the one to shed blood, but he likes the idea of it much better than always being the one to run away.

He looks around again. The high walls of the fortress rise on three sides: the third is the entrance, blocked by the massive gate, with pathways curling away on either side. In the midst of all this Malik feels faceless, alone as can be. It will take him years to realize that such is the fate of all his brethren. It will take him years to know that the individual assassin is without presence, without name…without any other ties to the world…

But for now he is aware only of their guide motioning them across the courtyard and Kadar trotting after him. For now, Malik hurries to keep up.

_-i-_

Into another section of the fortress, through more stone hallways, past more assassins. The Order seems impossibly large: all these _people_, and the Master said they protected the villages against Templars most of all, and yet Malik's home was still destroyed. (Where was the Brotherhood then?) They reach the end of a hallway and a set of wide doors, carved with the sort of curled, elaborate designs he'd assumed were only on mosques.

"From now on you'll go here on your own each morning," their guide rasps. It's the first thing he's said yet, and his voice gives away neither emotion nor age. He's a whispering ghost: the harder Malik stares at him, the less visible he appears. "By sunup. If you're late you won't eat."

Kadar has clearly been here before: it's the only conceivable reason for why he isn't gaping at the huge room beyond the doors. Lined with stone, of course, and tremendous carvings, and filled with long tables about which are clustered assassins of every rank. A heady scent of food rises, signaling the morning meal in progress. Malik is painfully aware of his newness into this ranked life and his low position within it, so he tries not to look too amazed by the vaulted ceilings as he follows Kadar inside.

His real brother strides along until he reaches a place near the back, filled with Brothers in various combinations of grey and white. It doesn't surprise Malik to see Altair sitting at the head of the table, though there are older men sitting further down; the brat has conquered himself a position of grudgingly deserved power and sits smirking, lording it over everyone without saying a world.

"Safety and peace," says Kadar. Malik glances at him, surprised, and lets the traditional _salaam_ die on his tongue. Kadar's greeting is apparently the correct one, as those nearest murmur it back. Bodies shift until space is made, and the A-Sayf brothers slide in between two teenaged boys Malik doesn't recognize.

But before anyone can begin introductions, Altair takes control of the conversation with a slow drawl: "So," he says, and though he's sitting crooked in his chair without looking at anyone in particular, it's clear where he aims his words. "You haven't died yet? That's a surprise."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Malik mutters. Altair is the only one wearing his cowl at the table and yet he _still_ doesn't look ridiculous.

"You should call me Brother now."

Malik is in no mood to be taunted by some kid practically his own age. He looks Altair right in the eye—no small trick, what with the cowl—and wonders aloud, "Are we Brothers yet?"

"You're right, you're no assassin. Just because they gave you the uniform doesn't mean you can swing a sword. You're still just a novice."

"So are you," says the boy on his right, and Malik recognizes Abbas. They nod at each other, and Malik feels reassurance at the familiar-face-that-isn't-Altair's. "You still have ages to go until you reach anything close to full rank—"

"I'm farther along than the rest of you. You'd think your god would have seen fit to show you how to fight by now."

"Blasphemer! You'll go right to hell when you die, I swear that you will."

"And who is strong enough to send me there? Certainly not _you_."

Malik lets the already-familiar argument wash over him and looks around at the rest of the people around the table. The boy sitting across from him, Rauf, introduces himself with a smile. There are a couple others around their age, one or two not much older than Kadar, and then a group of older men, in their twenties at least. Kadar points out those at other tables he's already met. Then masked men, interchangeable with their guide from before, appear at each table with platters of food: a basic brown stew and bread.

Abbas moves his lips in murmured prayer before dipping his chunk of bread into the stew. Malik follows his lead, half-heartedly, until he realizes that they're the only two people at the table bothering with ceremony. Altair is watching them both with open disdain. Malik falls silent and glances over at Kadar, who's already devouring his meal: religion does not seem to be a requirement here.

"S'good," Kadar says with his mouth full.

Rauf, who's around Malik's age with cheerful brown eyes and a narrow chin, shrugs. "My mother used to make better. No one ever likes being on cooking duty. Assassins aren't supposed to stir stew."

"Where's your mother?" Kadar asks.

Rauf shrugs again. "Dead. Some coughing sickness. We lived just outside Masyaf so when she died, I came here."

"A lot of people here got orphaned first," Abbas adds. "Or else their parents couldn't care for them."

"Or didn't want to care for them," someone further down the table calls. Malik can't see tell who said it, but he can see the way people start snickering and sliding eyes in Altair's direction. Altair acts as if he hasn't heard, but two spots of color burn high in his cheeks, and his gaze drops angrily back to his bowl.

Abbas continues, "My father's first wife was a real demon. She and her lousy brothers got my father's head turned around, said only his children with _her_ were really worth anything. And she made him think I wasn't his, like my mother was whoring or something."

"I thought you said your parents were poor, loyal Muslims."

"_My_ mother and father _were_ loyal Muslims. Poor, too, thanks to his first wife running around like a queen, using up every bit of money my father brought in." He says fiercely, "She was the whore. Used to smear red paint all over her face so my father wouldn't realize how wrinkled and ugly she was. Anyway she got him all confused and he kicked me out. At that point there wasn't much money left for anyone. Definitely not enough for two wives' worth'a kids."

"The _hashish_ probably helped with that," someone else points out.

"Nuh uh," Abbas insists. "It was all that witch, I swear on the Prophet. She's the one who confused him and spent all the money."

"What kind of a man is it who can't control his own wives?"

"It was _her_," Abbas says sullenly, to himself since no one else is listening. They're all busy explaining their own paths towards joining the Brotherhood, chatting over each other and making fun of stories no matter how dark. Malik is content to sit and listen, amused, spooning thick stew into his mouth. It's filling if not especially flavorsome, and the thought that he can sit here each day and have food guaranteed him is enough to make it all seem a feast.

"What about you two?" Rauf asks. "It's rare for Al Masyaf to see people begging. The Master makes sure that everyone is taken care of, more or less."

Malik pauses, parsing through his history to see what he's willing to share, but before he can say anything Kadar chirps, "Well, we've always been brothers."

"_Really_," Altair says. Malik waits until Kadar's not looking to throw a piece of bread at a certain somebody's sneering face.

"It's true," Kadar nods. "Father let Malik be a shepherd 'cause he's ten already and I got to bring him lunch and help Mother with cooking and she always said she was lucky cause I helped her so well. And when Malik was done being a shepherd he'd come back and him and Father would get to sit with, like, the _whole_ village for dinner. And…"

"Kadar," Malik tries to jump in, "you're talking too much—"

"…and Malik was a real good brother who fought off snakes, like, _all the time_ and then he said when there were wolves he could…"

"_Kadar_!"

"And!" Kadar finishes triumphantly, "And he always knows exactly what to do. That's why we went through the whole desert and still got here _and_ I didn't ruin my shoes, 'cause Malik was the one in charge. He never messes up." A solemn nod: "I never gotta worry 'bout anything 'cause Malik knows what to do."

Thankfully the other boys don't do much more than chuckle—except for Altair, who rolls his eyes again. Malik frowns: what's to scoff at? Just because he's managed to keep what's left of his actual family safe? Maybe Altair doesn't understand 'family'…it doesn't sound like he's ever _had_ any…

Then he hears Abbas ask, "So then what happened?" Kadar seems to shrink a bit and this time Malik doesn't let himself be talked past.

"Templars came," he says severely, "and I saved my brother and we walked until we got here. That's all. It's not worth talking about."

Kadar looks down at his bowl. Malik misses the mindless chatter.

"It's been a while since someone near my age joined the Brotherhood," says Rauf, perceptive enough to change the subject. "Al Mualim accepts anyone willing to train for the cause. But a lot of us come here because there's nowhere else to go."

"And everyone becomes an assassin?" Kadar asks.

Rauf nods. "There's different ways to do that, though. You can become a trainer, or an informer, or a scholar…"

"Or a _Rafik_," says Abbas. "They run bureaus in other cities since the Master can't be everywhere. Or you can be a guardsman and protect Masyaf. The best guardsman are so skilled they can kill you before you've even thought of causing trouble, swear to Allah it's true."

'"Course, you can die in training if you're not good enough, so a lot of people never reach full rank. But the Brothers who survive get sent to other cities to spy and…"

"And that's all a waste of time," Altair says suddenly, fire in his half-hidden eyes. Malik finds himself wondering about the color hiding under the hood: don't Christians all have yellow hair? But Altair's is brown, or at least more brown than yellow. Why does he bother to keep the cowl raised all the time?

"They're honorable positions," Rauf protests. "Without trainers and scholars to teach…"

But Altair dismisses this with a jerk of his head. "We're here to serve the Brotherhood. The only true path is the one that leads to assassinations." He flicks his gaze in Malik's direction, sizing him up in much the same way he did the last time they met. "If you aren't strong enough to do the Master's bidding and kill at his command, you can settle for some other task."

"Altair wants to be a Master Assassin," Abbas says sourly. "Outranked only by Al Mualim himself."

Altair preens. "But that's difficult to accomplish," he informs Malik, "so don't be surprised when you end up as a—a _Rafik_ or cook instead."

"There's only high honor in that!" Rauf insists. "_Rafiks_ are in control of whole cities! And only wisemen or high-ranked fighters become them anyway."

"Yes," says Altair, "perhaps you can be the chief nursemaid of Damascus or Jerusalem, find information and bandage wounds for the assassins who actually kill. You're probably good enough for that." He glances at Malik's wrists where they poke from his sleeves, as skeletal as the rest of him. Malik glares back: he's done nothing about which to feel ashamed.

Rauf sighs, "Jerusalem is guarded by the _Dai_. That's even more honorable."

"Of course," says Altair, in a tone dripping scorn.

"Maybe we'll both be Master Assassins," Malik says, casually enough. "Or maybe you'll end up a cook."

"Not likely. I know my talents."

"Your talents are for kissing ass." Both boys look up at the sound of fresh sneering from the far end of the table. Once again it's impossible to tell who's spoken.

Altair's eyes flash. "You're only jealous," he starts to say, but suddenly it seems like half the table is glaring his way.

"Jealous of what?" someone calls. "Keep your skills. Even if you were a bumbling idiot Al Mualim would keep you around, provided you groveled at his feet long enough. You think because you throw strong punches you're cut out to be a Master Assassin?"

"More than any of you," Altair snaps.

"Oh, yes," a boy several seats down says. "The half-breed will be at the top of the Order, when even his own parents thought he was too ugly to keep. They should have dropped you down the nearest well."

Altair hisses, "Shut up," and his fingers twitch at his sides as if reaching for a sword. "If Al Mualim shows more interest in me than in the rest of you it's because I'm the only novice worth the effort of training. Don't forget that he _asked_ my parents to leave me here—"

"Says who? The Master?"

"Are you calling him a liar? Then do so to his face and see what happens!"

"I'm not calling the Master anything." The boy, who's several years older and has a face ragged with pockmarks, purses his lips. "I'm calling _you_ a lying, half-breed piece of shit." And around him come only snickers and nods.

Altair jerks upright, throwing himself away from the table so that his chair skitters against the stone floor. He stands with his shoulders pulled back, his hands balled into fists, and Malik notes that he meets his attackers' eyes even as his jaw clenches and his eyes glint. "I couldn't care less what any of you think," he snarls, and storms away with the hem of his robe flaring about his ankles. Malik is practically the only one to watch him leave without laughing, and he sees how Altair—he of the amazing talents—walks through the crowded room as if it's empty but for him. He acknowledges no one he passes, and no one acknowledges him.

Malik is surprised to recognize the forlorn defiance in the stride.

"Brother," Kadar whispers, his mouth half-full of bread, "is it a bad thing to be a…a half-breed?"

"I guess for him it is."

Rauf sighs again. "He brings it on himself, sometimes. No one would care so much if he wasn't so…"

"But," Malik says thoughtfully, "he really _is_ good at fighting. I've only seen him practice once and I could tell."

"He's strange," Rauf says. "I don't mind him as much as the others do, but I still think he's strange. The way he struts about like he's the Grandmaster of the Order…and the way he's always talking down to everyone."

"I think he's lonely," Kadar announces, but his child's voice is small against the general din, and no one hears him. The meal is wrapping up and assassins are moving around the room; Malik's table is already half-empty. Abbas is finished eating and has gone back to mumbling prayers under his breath (Malik remembers most but not all of the words). Then Rauf stands up and smiles.

"Where are you two going? You haven't started weapons training yet, have you?"

"Not yet," Malik says. "I'm not sure…" But the skin on the back of his neck is pricking, and when he glances over his shoulder there's his masked guide—or some other masked guide—motioning him closer. He nudges his brother and gets to his feet.

_-i-_

They are led through more halls and more doorways, they pass rooms great and small, crowded or empty. Truly there seems to be no end to this place, and Malik wonders at what it must be like to live in the village of Masyaf, in the shadows of such a grand structure. Do the Templars have similar fortresses where they come from? And if they do, why bother attacking poor places at all? What did Malik's home have to offer that they didn't already have?

Their guide finally stops at a door, quite indistinguishable from the rest, and knocks. It's opened a second later by a man in full white, down to his beard and the hair curling out from the edges of his raised cowl. Lines of gold silk line the hem of his robes; laugh-marks line the corners of his eyes. Malik looks into the faded honey-brown of those eyes and is reminded of his father, sudden and sharp.

"Safety and peace," the old man says.

"Safety and peace," Malik and Kadar echo dutifully, mindful of the respect commanded by age.

"So you are the recruits I've heard so much about. At last count you held off half a dozen warriors single-handedly." The man's eyes crinkle in laughter. "Funny how assassins gossip and call it staying informed. Worse than women." He motions, his wide sleeves turning even the small gesture dramatic. "Well, come in then."

The room they enter is small, and cramped, and covered in beautifully decorated rugs of every vibrant shade. But the real attention-grabbers are the books, lining shelves along each wall and stacked in corners knee-high. Worn scrolls and scraps of curling paper cover every surface. Black ink stains a table along the far wall, and the light from the one wide window has faded the gilded covers of books lying nearby.

Malik has shared a room with exactly one book in his life, and that was his father's ancient copy of the Holy Quran, which no one except his father could even read. He knows without asking the cost of one book, and here there are dozens! Tens of dozens! Malik has no great love of books; he respects them as he might respect a fine warhorse, with quiet appreciation for what he'll never have. But to see so many words stacked upon each other leaves him wide-eyed nevertheless.

The bearded man laughs again and spreads his arms wide. Only the masked guide is unaffected by the jovial mood. "Yes, yes, quite a show. If you're impressed by this, wait until you see the Master's Library. None save him and those he invites may enter it, but I've heard it said that every scrap of wisdom in this world or the next can be found there. A modern-day Tree of Knowledge. But the real Eden is out back, eh?"

Malik is too confused to do much more than smile. He glances at the table again, yearning to pick up one of the faded scrolls but unsure what his new rank and title allow.

The man sees his hungry expression. "Drawn to that table in particular, I see? Well, they're very beautiful. But come, sit down—there are pillows there, get comfortable. Once you leave this room you'll have to be stern and strong, so you might as well enjoy the luxury of relaxing while you can…"

Once again Malik is lost in the man's babble, but he does sit down on a cushion against the wall. Kadar settles next to him, close enough that the stiff, new fabric of their robes brush.

"Now then." The man stands before them, sizing them up as is apparently so common here. "Al Mualim tells me neither one of you can read or write."

Malik shrugs. Kadar says, "I was gonna do school when we got to Damascus."

"So I hear. It's no matter, many a grown man has joined the Order without being able to read his own name. It'll be easier to teach the two of you, that's for sure—why, you're still so young! I'll have you speaking in three tongues a piece by two year's time."

Kadar giggles. "No one can speak that many languages. All the words would get confused."

But the man winks. "You think so? The Master can speak in half-a-dozen, and read another three or four besides. In his library are books from every land, with every question's answer."

Malik can see his little brother trying to digest this. "So like…so like…religious stuff?"

"The words of Allah," nods the man, "and Jesus Christ, and Abraham, and all the saints and Sufi mystics and Hindu deities. The lessons of evil kings and good kings both."

"I thought we were assassins," Malik says, feeling a tad bit too much like Altair as he does so. "I thought we were gonna learn how to fight."

"And you are, and you will. But any brawler can throw a punch. Master Assassins are unstoppable in all respects." Another, knowing smile. "Not convinced? Good. Assassins should only follow those who prove the wisdom behind their words. Here, let me show you…"

He walks over to the table and pulls off the very scroll Malik had been eyeing. But instead of steady lines of ink, what unrolling the parchment reveals is something beyond all expectation. Reds and yellows and browns, shapes and lines and arrows, words scribbled in small clusters along the edges, everything drawn out with significant skill, perfect down to the details in a way that even Malik's untrained eyes can recognize-!

The scroll is a map, of what city he doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that the symbols it bears are meaningless. No, it doesn't matter at all. It's _lovely_, lovelier than he'd ever known written things could be.

Malik considers all this. The pillows are soft and the robes are clean and the room is filled with knowledge—but he has long since learned to mistrust anything that seems too good to be real. "Who are you?" he asks. "Are you one of the scholars?"

The man smiles wide in his white finery. "I was," he says, "for many years. But now I am a _Dai_. _Dai_ Faraj, and you are Malik A-Sayf. And there is so much work that must get done."

_-i-_

So for days, weeks, months they learn, from early morning until long shadows creep across the words they're trying to understand. Dai Faraj is an eager teacher but also a strict taskmaster: he sets them both with hours of work for once they've left the room. Malik is, at first, uncertain about practicing in the room he sleeps in at night, because it isn't the one he regained his strength in. He's been moved with his brother to a larger room filled with mats, where other novice assassins—including Rauf and Abbas and _Altair_ worst of all—also sleep. So he's not sure how his fellow Brothers will take his struggling after the tail-ends of words they all already know.

Predictably Altair scoffs, but Malik's long since stopped taking offense to that one's bile. Altair, he realized after that ill-fated breakfast, is always angry, and substitutes levels of nastiness for actual emotions. Anyway, when it comes to the reading lessons no one else seems to care. Certainly no one seems to consider Malik's being illiterate at ten to be something shameful. Rauf admits quite openly that _Dai_ Faraj gave up on him after the basics; Abbas complains that he'd enjoyed the task of learning, but the books he'd been given to memorize were all _so_ blasphemous that he couldn't help but set them aside, so it wasn't his fault he'd stopped reading them, really it wasn't…

Kadar, equally predictably, is too busy being delighted with his newfound ability to scratch letters in the dirt to realize he should be embarrassed at gaining it so late.

And slowly, slowly, the words begin to make sense…slowly the curled lines form meanings and reveal their mysteries…

At night, long after Rauf's begun to snore and Abbas to mutter in his sleep, long after Altair's pushed himself to 'his' corner of the room with his back to the others, shoulders tense even in slumber, Malik practices. He writes out his name in the tangled Arabic script, and when he's memorized the look of it he writes out his brother's name as well. He remembers being lost in the desert, and in that dirty little village, and feeling so ignorant. He remembers being unable to fight well enough to protect Kadar, and longing to give justice to the insults bursting off his tongue. He remembers, and because he remembers he does his best to learn.

But he's too busy to remember what was once home. The village is fading already, not much more now than the recollection of fire. Kadar still sleeps curled up against him, still sometimes has nightmares that tear them (and half of the rest of the room) awake. That _does_ draw some snickering from the others, but Malik tends to his brother with no concern for anyone else. Let them laugh. Malik knows his duty.

So much to learn, the Master and the _Dai_ both promised. So much to do! With reading, with writing: Malik soon learns the wonder of creating art two ways in one. With his quill grasped carefully in hand he swirls ink against the page. The letters he forms flow into one another gracefully, and their meaning is without confusion. _Dai_ Faraj is delighted at his quick progress; as soon as he grasps one concept, one letter or definition, he's off to the next with no mistakes.

"Such a fast learner," muses his teacher. "You've natural talent in this. Most of your fellow Brothers could barely sit still long enough to learn their names."

Altair, Malik already knows, is one of these—he's quick to make some snide comment about dueling swords against quills if he catches Malik practicing his penmanship against the ground. But Altair is too busy fighting to learn; he's had his basic reading skills down for years and sees no reason to move further. He's been given special dispensation to start training with throwing knives early, in spite of his rank and the dark muttering that surrounds him. With this honor to wave around no one comments on how often he skips his writing lessons to throw daggers at walls instead.

Kadar also has some trouble. As eager as he is to learn, his hands are constantly fumbling the ink pots and smearing fresh work. He picks up basic reading skills well enough, but his handwriting stays atrocious long after Malik's begins to develop its perfect edge. The older brother sits up night after night, patiently helping the younger practice the Arabic forms.

"Don't you remember that map we saw?" he reminds Kadar. "Don't you want to be that good?"

"I guess," says Kadar, and shoots the corner of the room what he must think is a stealthy look: Altair is over there, not that Malik bothers to glance over himself, cleaning his dagger, cocky as ever because in the past few months he's gone up another rank.

("Oh well," sighs _Dai_ Faraj, "I should be happy with one student who shows promise such as yours.")

_-i-_

Gradually the writing lessons begin to change, as Malik masters the basics and Kadar continues to have trouble with his handwriting skills (or lack thereof). Now they meet with the _Dai_ only three or four times a week; the other days they stand with some fellow novices in a smaller version of the main courtyard's fighting ring. The one they use is buried between parts of the building, another bit of outside space with stone walls on all four sides.

Malik still isn't sure what to make of his new job as assassin, but he does know he didn't expect the sort of training he's being given. While Rauf and Abbas practice bewilderingly complicated throws and blocks, Malik gets lectures from the fighting instructor on stance: when to bend his knees and when to stand stiff, or how to predict an attack with eyes closed. It all seems so inane, but he goes along with it because clearly the training gets more interesting later on—

And because it seems that every time he turns around, Altair is there, knocking over men twice his size and age. Altair must have had to learn how to stand, once. And Malik, for reasons he doesn't entirely understand, is determined to be as good a fighter as Altair, though it might take him half his life to manage it. Every time they see each other it's as if they're sizing each other up anew, and Malik does not want to be found lacking in front of _him_.

It culminates in his searching out extra time for practice. Now, after the evening meal and an hour's worth of writing for _Dai _Faraj—who remains as mysterious and cheerful three months in as he was the first day—Malik slips away from the others. He has no weapons yet besides his fists, so there's nothing to cause a clatter and give himself away; no one's ever told him _not_ to go exploring at night, but that doesn't mean novices are welcome to scuttle about the halls. At night Malik only ever passes high-ranking assassins, lithe giants with scowls to match scarred faces.

(Malik wonders what it's like to be marked in such a permanent way. He's seen his Brothers boast of their wounds, and the novices his age are quick to join in the ritual; Altair's the only one of them to have any actual fighting scars, but Rauf does have several dramatic stories revolving around a white line on his arm, switching between them depending on his mood. The real cause for the scar, far less interesting and thus never mentioned, was his failing to watch where he was walking, with the end result a messy collision of novice and door.

But for all the talk of wounds and brands, Malik still wonders…what can it be like, to walk around with a piece so irretrievably torn away?)

Tonight he skirts around those grimmer men and finds his usual courtyard, an out-of-the-way patch of dirt somewhere towards the back of the massive complex. The walls that surround it are shorter here, only three stories with few windows, and sometimes the wind carries the smell of water; the river, gushing at the bottom of the gorge, must be close to this part of the fortress.

Malik stands in the grassy center. He likes this courtyard because he can find his way back without getting caught in the still-confusing tangle of hallways and trap doors; he's heard that a man can spend his entire life in the fortress and not learn all its paths. It's said that Al Mualim is the only man in the world with every passage memorized—and it's said just as often that there's something beyond _human_ in Al Mualim.

But despite the courtyard's easy access, or perhaps because of it, the courtyard is always deserted. Malik counts this as another good feature, because it's better to keep his stance hidden while it's still so awkward. By now he's watched countless fights in the sparring circle, and though someone usually loses a bout in the ring he does so only after a grueling battle. Half the time he has to be dragged out by others. Malik isn't quite ready for that mayhem just yet.

He shakes out his limps, steadies his breathing as the fighting master instructed. Tries to feel the flow of energy in his arms. Counts the beats of his pulse and the throbs of his heart. Imagines attackers striking at him from all directions…fierce Templars wearing burnished armor, dripping blood that isn't theirs…

Then he stops. The skin at the back of his neck is prickling again. For all that the courtyard is deserted—and he _knows_ it is, he's checked every corner—every now and then he feels eyes watching him. The feeling is back tonight, that whispering sense that he is not alone. As an assassin he is being trained to hone his senses well, and as a novice he knows that the fortress of Masyaf holds many secrets behind its walls. There's no way to guarantee he isn't been spied upon from one of the narrow windows up above.

For a while he tries to put the sense out of mind, as he does each time it appears. What does it matter if someone's watching his clumsy, basic punches? He isn't doing anything wrong.

_Give me a year,_ he vows, _and a sword. I'll give them something to watch._

As the sky above darkens he closes his eyes, pulling his body into the proper position and focusing on his breathing. Here, the fighting instructor had said, was the whole of battle: all the trickery of advanced techniques had their basis in the right way to stand, and thus a bad fighter could be culled from the rest with no doubt, even at this early stage. To assassinate was not to murder: to assassinate was to relish in the craft more than the final outcome. A bloodier alternative to pottery-making, he'd said without the barest flicker of smile. Master the body, push it hard and move it fast as lightning, replace doubt with confidence and hesitancy with speed.

Yesterday Altair had thrown his daggers for the instructor to critique. Annoyingly, but also true to form, there was little that needed correction. He'd ignored the praise in that strutting way that suggested he wasn't actually ignoring it at all, and darted his eyes in Malik's direction as if bragging to him in particular. Why that would be Malik has no idea; _Kadar_ was the one watching with his mouth open, not him. And anyway the older brother wishes the younger would stop being so amazed, because Altair is a jerk who doesn't need the encouragement. It's not as if he's even _nice_ to Kadar!

Malik furrows his brows, finds that his breathing has hitched in his throat and forces himself to calmly inhale. They barely speak, the orphan and the brat, but what they _don't_ say is every bit as distracting. Altair is always watching him, lurking about the fortress with his eyes piercing from beneath the cowl. _Like a snake,_ Malik thinks now, _or a hawk. _

Altair watches, for whatever bizarre reason he has floating inside his skull, and because Malik isn't sure what the other boy's motives are, he stares back. They aren't on the same level in fighting skill, not yet, and Altair has little interest in a writing competition. Their sparse conversations are tinged with insults and casual cruelties of every type. There's nothing that should attract one to the other save for their tenuous connection as Brothers. But when Malik is up in the middle of the night, trying to shake Kadar from a nightmare while the novices around them grumble in their sleep, he can feel Altair's snake-eyes following the twitching of his hands. Demanding something. Demanding what?

Malik scowls. He's breathing too quickly again.

Oh well. Better to be within the strange Order than roaming the Syrian sands alone, even if said Order includes Altair. _They don't treat you like some half-adult when you're ten_, he reflects. _They treat you as mature as your rank says you are. Which means everyone treats Altair like some demigod. They don't want to cross him, but they don't want to stay near him either._

He shakes out the budding stiffness in his right arm and regains his stance. Maybe tomorrow night he'll bring Kadar along; wearing him out might be one way to end all the bad dreaming. Either way Malik prefers to have Kadar around, to have his cheerful second shadow following along. Lately he's begun to suspect that he likes being the older brother because it's one position that stays.

He's been a shepherd, a victim, a beggar, and now a novice assassin. He's ten at the moment, but that will change. Who knows what the next role will be? But being the elder brother, now _that_—that he can count on. If his punches grow smooth and quick or if he ends up becoming the Brotherhood's cook, if his village was never attacked or if they'd never made it to Masyaf: if, if, if, but after all the ifs he will still be Kadar's guardian.

Malik arches his back and readies his fist for a blow…

"Not like that. You'd break your hand."

He turns quickly, displeased at being caught unaware by, of _course_, Altair. The older boy stands by the door, arms folded, a small smirk playing out across his lips. Malik glares at that too-white face.

"What are you doing here?" he demands. Then he realizes: "You're the one who's been watching me."

Altair shrugs, slow and unconcerned. "You saw me?"

"I didn't need to. You're a really obvious spy."

"As if you'd know what makes a good spy." Altair takes a step closer. "Your stance is alright, I _guess_, but your punches wouldn't hurt anybody."

Malik grits his teeth. "Why are you here?"

Another shrug. "I was curious."

"About _what_?" Pulling answers out of Altair is difficult, Malik is learning rapidly; the brat relies on three words to contain all the meaning of thirteen. Come to think of it, whenever he practices he does so silently, without any of the friendly banter or cursing common to everyone else. He throws his stupid perfect punches with a smirk on his stupid face because he knows no one will be able to find any fault with him. He lets his silence do his bragging for him. It's _stupid_.

Tonight Altair condescends to put words to use. "I wanted to know what you looked like without the other one tied to your back. I thought maybe you'd be a better fighter if you weren't so…distracted."

"The 'other one'? You mean Kadar."

"You'll never be a true assassin if your loyalties are splintered," Altair says, using phrases he must have gleaned from the Master as if they were his own. "Assassins must be dedicated to the Brotherhood beyond all other things."

"Thank you for the lecture," Malik scoffs. "And what sort of things do you teach, Master?"

"I'm only telling you the truth." Altair reaches up and tugs his cowl lower over his eyes. Instinctively Malik reaches for his own, only to remember he hadn't bothered to put it on before leaving the bedroom. "It's why Abbas will never reach full rank. He's too busy prostra—prostrating himself before some god." A quirked eyebrow, signaling the barest of curiosities: "You haven't prayed lately. Not such a loyal Muslim?"

"Are we going to stand here all night while you question me?" Malik is too flustered to admit he doesn't know what _prostrating_ means. "Or was there a point to all this?"

"Your brother is going to hold you back. That's the point."

"I thought the Order was formed around loyalty. Aren't we all Brothers?"

"You understand nothing. When they teach you the Creed they'll have to use small words."

"I think," says Malik, "that you're the one who understands nothing. You make it sound like Kadar is…is a _choice_."

Altair doesn't hesitate. "Isn't he?"

They look at each other for a moment, the question heavy on the air. Then Malik starts to laugh.

"What?" Altair demands. "What is funny?"

"Oh, jokes are never funny if you have to explain them…"

"_What_ are you laughing at?"

"You. You and these silly ideas of yours. But I guess," Malik says innocently, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's not your fault you don't know how family works. You don't have any family. So I can see why it wouldn't make sense to you."

At the last second his tone changes, and he realizes that towards the end he sounded more pitying than mean. It must be the pity that causes Altair to redden and whirl around, ready for another one of his dramatic exits, because he's not one to flinch from insults. Malik feels guilty, for a moment.

"You know," he calls to Altair's fleeing back, "every time you flash one of your daggers Kadar practically falls over. He'd be real happy if you showed him one up close."

The sound of the door being slammed is the only answer he gets.


	8. Part One: Chapter Seven

AN: Screw English gender pronouns. There are _no girls_ in this story whatsoever, which means I am trying to juggle way too many _hes_ and _hims_ and _his's_. I'mma about ready to mary sue this fic into anachronistic la-la-land and make a female assassin, just so I can say _she_ once in a while.

(No, I'm not actually about to do this. Although I have always been curious as to whether there were any female members of the Order besides Al Mualim's ladies of the garden. Wouldn't surprise me if they had some femme spies/informers or something, they seem like a pretty progressive bunch for the times. Of course I'm talking about the game assassins and not the actual hashashin. They probably weren't so progressive.

Well, there's always Maria Thorpe. But she's like my least favorite character from anything ever, so.)

Has anyone heard any rumors about the AC novel coming out in a few months? Because the ones I've heard via the wiki are terrifying.

Lastly, if you don't get the _kleeve_ references you still haven't read _Paths Not on the Map_.

* * *

_**The Master Assassin**_

Those first few months, Malik felt like an outsider trying to fit in: an orphan chased from his village and forced to seek refuge elsewhere. But as time goes by his new identity becomes his only one. He can read and write now, if with some lingering difficulty, and that skill alone is one he'd never been expected to have. Not by his parents, not by his fellow villagers. Already, Malik is not who he would have been. Even if Allah in His infinite desire for justice slew all the Templars and brought back Malik's parents unharmed, he could not return to them as he was at their loss. He is an assassin now, and that is not a role that can be shaken off at whim.

Still, at night he sometimes feels an ache deeper than any he can name, and Kadar still has nightmares for the other novices to mock. For a while it seems as though this will never change. Then, one sweltering day in the main courtyard, while Malik watches Abbas fail utterly to land a punch on Altair, a masked guard arrives with Kadar in tow.

"You've been summoned by the Grandmaster," the guard says. "Come with me."

"I wonder what he wants," Abbas says from his current position on the ground. "It's rare for the Master to send for a novice. _Inshallah_ it's good news."

Altair ignores the interruption as he ignores the A-Sayf brothers, with a stubborn iciness he's worn since his argument with Malik in the small courtyard a few weeks ago. He brushes his hands against the sides of his robes, waiting for Abbas to stand up. Malik wonders if his disinterest isn't an act, at least in part; out of all of them Altair is the most likely to be called to Al Mualim's side, and yet he isn't the one being sent for today. A fact that means nothing to anyone but Altair himself, no doubt…he so often views the world only as it relates to himself, as if all the events of the Order revolve around this one novice with a scowl on his face.

"Come," says the guard, and Malik follows. He could spent a year trying to understand his fellow Brother, but he isn't sure why he'd ever want to _try_.

The guard leads him and Kadar across the courtyard and up a stone path that rises slightly to curve in front of the training ring. Malik has gone this way many times, but until now he's always bypassed the main entrance, with its looming gates of iron and stone, for smaller doors. Only important scholars and high-ranked assassins can enter the main hall without permission: though the hall itself is only a small part of the massive fortress, and though it is dwarfed on either side by other sections, it is the most sacred place in all of Masyaf.

Malik has never been allowed in before, and has never been able to stare out of the massive window cut into the third story of the hall, from which important messages are sent and the whole of the village below can be seen. He's never been able to pass between the two men that guard the main door: more than mere guards, they are dressed to show their rank and fierce enough to defend it. Both keep their hands firm upon the hilts of their swords, and Malik knows they would not hesitate to run even a fellow assassin through if it was required to protect the Master.

The guards who, silent and frowning, watch the A-Sayf brothers being led inside are Al Mualim's personal guard. No one on Earth has such a loyal and deadly force to command. No one but Al Mualim deserves it.

"Wow," Kadar whispers as they traipse nervously into the hall. "_Dai_ Faraj was right. Look at all the books."

The hall loses no awe for being built on a smaller scale. A plush strip of red carpet drawn across stones worn slippery by countless years of foot traffic ends at a curving staircase. The first floor is busy, crowded with bookshelves—and the shelves are, in turn, crowded with books and the hovering hands of visiting scholars and _rafiks._ Men from half a dozen ranks (but all of them high ones) stand murmuring in small groups with rolls of parchment in their hands, or else hunt down knowledge stacked under the eaves.

But they have not been brought here to read, as much as Malik is fascinated in the face of all this gathered wisdom. Who knew there could be so much of such importance that it was worth writing down!

The carpeted path is lined with more of Al Mualim's personal men, and so are the stairs. They lead to a small landing and continue on, but there are doors of black iron leading outside as well. These are blocked by two of the bulkiest, most hulking men Malik has ever seen. From wherever the doors lead comes a faint smell of flowers and the sound of a woman's laugh.

Malik blinks and almost forgets to keep walking. Women, here? No wonder the two guards seem studded with even more weapons than usual. It doesn't really matter, though: Kadar prods his shoulder and he continues up the stairs, feeling the guards track his footsteps as he moves away. At the top of the stairs their guide stops and turns to them. "Wait here," he says, "until the Grandmaster calls for you. Do not move until he does." Then he turns and leaves the way they came, without any further explanation. Kadar shifts a step closer to his brother and shrugs.

Malik looks around. The floor is open in the middle, giving full view of the room below to those above. What narrow space remains is taken up by more bookshelves, mostly, with more bearded men rustling about in immaculate robes. Malik is strangely comforted to see it: they are no band of Templars, filthy and coarse and only interested in what loot they can grab. _Dai_ Faraj loves to argue with some of Malik's fellow novices, loves to insist that even a skillful and flawless kill does not a Master Assassin make. To reach top rank, a man must be frighteningly smart, both quick-witted and well-read.

And in his own way, hadn't the fighting instructor agreed? "It isn't the kill that matters," he'd said. "Be concerned with art and skill. Uphold the tenants of the Creed and live with honor, or else not at all."

Some of the other novices hadn't understood what either instructor had meant; Malik was not one of them. He understood instantly, even if he'd yet to learn the Creed itself. Live with honor, and also die with it: an assassin is not a scared little almost-adult, running from Templars while his home burns to the ground. Assassins do not run, nor maraud. They defend, and they protect…

"Malik!" Kadar gasps suddenly.

"What?" He frowns down at his little brother. "Don't be so loud."

"But look!"

Malik follows Kadar's eager finger and sees…he isn't sure what he sees. Or who. Because there are two men walking towards them, one of whom is Al Mualim, and yet he pales in comparison to the man besides him. Tall, draped in robes and cowl, his visible face limited to a scar-flecked mouth and crooked nose: his robes are longer, his red sash wider, and the cowl itself is pure white instead of grey. Tucked into his leather belt are any number of small daggers with glimmering hilts. Strapped to his back is a sword holster so long it reaches near the back of his knees. To wield such a blade must take immense strength, and yet the man's long arms are almost slender, despite being lined with ropey muscle. And his hands…

The stranger's hands have been baked a deep brown from too much time in the sun; in fact he's so dark-skinned he could almost pass for one of the African mercenary bands who pass through Masyaf on occasion, en route to make peace or trade with the Assassin Grandmaster. The palms and fingers are thick with calluses, brimming with latent power. Such a hand could crush a Templar's face to bits. Such a man could stop the wildest warhorse in its tracks.

But Malik is too distracted to consider warhorses and mercenaries just now. He's too distracted by the man's left hand, by the ring finger or lack thereof. The finger's been cut down to the first knuckle, but by now Malik has seen his share of sword wounds, of men staggering into the main courtyard bloody from missions gone wrong, and this injury does not look like those. The stump is too clean, too even—it was a deliberate amputation, of that Malik is sure.

Kadar is still gaping at the stranger, but Malik averts his eyes. There is a Master Assassin before him, and he is too uncertain to stare.

Certainly he would give up a finger if asked to by the Brotherhood, certainly he would risk limbs and life for his fellow assassins. When the time comes for him to be sent on missions he will shed blood at every step if need be. But to be a Master Assassin is to sacrifice, he can see that now: he can read the dismemberment, the great loss, in the arched stiffness of the stranger's walk. That sort of loss would require more than a finger, wouldn't it? More than an entire arm, even. They must sacrifice some great part of themselves and Malik isn't sure what more he has to give. His home and parents, the remnants of his childhood, are already gone. Surely there can't be anything left to take.

"So," Kadar wonders, "Can we move yet, do you think?"

The stranger bows low before Al Mualim. "I will send word when I reach Acre," he says. "Safety and peace go with you, Master."

"And with you. The situation in the city goes poorly, so stay alert."

"I will return quickly with the traitor's head."

"Return only with your mission accomplished and your mind freed from thoughts of vengeance. That is all I can ask." Al Mualim glances over, and his gaze falls upon the two novices. "Ah, you two are here. Come, follow me."

Malik leads the way, giving the Master Assassin a wide berth out of nervous admiration. The stranger heads for the stairs, descending in a ruffling of robes. Strapped to his back is another holster for another blade, a shorter one: there isn't an inch of this man that isn't deadly in some way. Even the men guarding the iron gates lower their eyes in deference as he passes by.

Still distracted by thoughts of sacrifice and missing fingers, Malik turns back towards Al Mualim. The Master has led them only a little way past the stairs, to a spot just below the spectacular window that looks down on Masyaf. Along one wall is a wide cage containing several birds. Most are small and grey: messengers of one type or another. Next to the cage, in the center of the floor, is an old desk buried underneath unraveled scrolls. A pot of ink sits to one side. The desk is large enough that it takes up much of the remaining space, but past the bird cages, along the far wall, is another cluster of bookshelves. There aren't any scholars browsing these stacks, and he's reminded of what _Dai_ Faraj had said regarding the Master's private library. Are the answers to all the world's secrets really to be found in those few shelves? Are there English words there, and French, and the holy books of idol-worshipers as well?

Al Mualim, resplendent as ever in his black robes, strides behind his desk. The A-Sayf brothers wait where they've been left, in front of it. Malik is a bit surprised by how informal the area is; it isn't closed off to the rest of the floor, and he can still see the heads of the guards down on the first level. Then again, perhaps that makes sense…from here Al Mualim can look out upon all his Order and make sure his will is known.

Still, compared to _Dai_ Faraj's room, this place is deceptively simple. No decorations but for a few simple banners tacked to the wall, and a ratty carpet in the corner near the library. The floor itself is the same grey stone, but still it's obvious that this is holy ground: etched out underneath Malik's feet is the symbol of the Brotherhood, that not-triangle shape that he will soon wear upon his chest. He swallows, feeling awkward. It feels as though he is held in place by the power of that symbol, as if his thoughts are no longer his own. Here it is obvious that he is another body to be used by Al Mualim's command.

But Al Mualim does not give out any commands, at least not yet. Instead he locks his hands in front of him and smiles. "I hear you both make great progress. You've taken to the Order quite well."

There doesn't seem to be much to say to that, and the Master doesn't seem to want a response. For once even Kadar is content to stay still and listen.

"I think it is time you two began your training in earnest. You've already been taught some basic hand-to-hand, and soon you will be shown how to strike with a sword. More weapons will be open to you as you progress. No doubt you've noticed this with other assassins by now."

Malik nods. He'd seen a high-ranked man squatting in a patch of shade by the fighting ring the other day, lovingly polishing an odd-looking silver thing clamped around his wrist. Then, with the slightest twitch, a blade popped out between his fingers. Altair had scoffed his supposed disinterest: "Look at how dulled the blade is. That's for training only, for _beginners_. He'll have to become a Master Assassin before they trust him with a real one."

(But even Altair, when he thought no one was watching, gave the hidden blade a hard, longing look…dulled blade or no…)

"But before you can be trained, you must prove your loyalty to the Order and the Creed." Al Mualim's voice takes on a brisk, expectant tone. "You must fully join the Brotherhood."

Kadar looks confused. "How? Do we haf'ta kill Templars already?"

Al Mualim shakes his head, gestures to one of the scrolls open upon his desk. "You've both been taught how to read, yes? Malik, read for yourself and your brother these words here."

Uncertainly Malik steps forward, and gazes down at the scroll. He's afraid that what's written there will be too complicated for his still-gathering abilities, that he'll have to admit to the _Master_ of all people that he doesn't know enough. What if this is all just a test to see how skilled he truly is? What if he hasn't learned enough to read the scroll correctly and pass the test? Will they make him leave? Will they make Kadar leave with him? Malik grows dizzy with fear at the thought. What on earth will they do if even the assassins don't want them? They'll be as homeless and hungry as they were before they came…

"Come, Malik," says Al Mualim. "Read aloud for us, if you would."

Malik takes a breath, stiffens his spine and makes a silent promise not to fall over backwards if he doesn't know a word. But as he begins to read, in a steady-if-wooden tone, he's surprised to find that what's written down is actually pretty basic stuff. It certainly isn't a difficult test, if that is indeed what this is.

"The Creed is thus," he reads, "and to disobey it is to disobey your own self. The goal of the Assassin is to ensure peace in all things, and wielding a blade damages the swordsman most of all. You shall never forget this tenant: stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent, so that only the wicked may doubt your intent."

He blinks and pauses, to take it all in. Templars certainly aren't innocent, so there shouldn't be a problem with killing them—but he's beginning to see how a half-Christian boy could be made welcome now.

"Be unseen," he continues. "Become yourself an illusion within unsuspecting crowds."

"Let them think it is God's will," Al Mualim murmurs. "Let them respect you as they would respect an angel's righteous fury. An assassin cannot be a mere mortal, scrabbling in the dust for gold or religion or corrupt personal gain. He must be beyond."

"But Allah…" Malik hesitates, and falls silent with confusion. His father had told him so many times that only the Creator of the Universe, all honor to Him and His Prophet, could decide judgment, could decide right from wrong. Yet the words of the Creed ring true anyway. But who is Malik to decide? Only a boy torn from everything…

"Men turn to gods for justice," Al Mualim says softly, as if Malik had finished his sentence, "but often they find none. So it is the task of the Order to offer justice to them. It is not easy, for we must be beyond men so that we may serve them. Our standards are higher for ourselves then for anyone else. The Creed guides us so that we do not fall astray." He nods at the scroll. "But you are not finished reading. Please, continue."

Mind awhirl, Malik reads, "And who are you that you should decide the fates of your Brothers? Only the Grandmaster has proven himself worthy of such a burden. For you, O mortal, the actions of one must never bring harm to all. For the Brotherhood must be kept safe, and those it protects must not give their trust in vain."

Al Mualim spreads his arms wide. "_Laa shay'a waqi'un, moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine,_" he says. "Nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

"Nothing is true," Malik and Kadar answer as one, "and everything is permitted."

The Master looks pleased. "You will learn the full meaning behind those words in time. For now…" He turns back to the desk, and from a drawer produces two small, silver charms with leather straps—Malik recognizes the not-triangle symbol and gets a chill down his spine.

So they've done it…so they belong here now. Malik reaches with reverence for one and clutches it in his fist, wanting to strap it about his chest right away but knowing he should wait until after Al Mualim's dismissal. To be an assassin, to be trusted with the secrets and the burdens and the—

Suddenly he's overcome with the urge to run back to the courtyard and show off his new rank and position to Altair. Not that the other boy will care in the slightest, but still it feels…it feels as if Malik's passed some unspoken test set up by his supposed Brother. After all, now there aren't any orphans or beggars or half-breeds. Now they're both _assassins_ before anything else.

Malik flexes his free hand. When one day the Order demands his finger, or whatever else, he will offer it up with a smile. And he'll make sure to aim that smile at Altair, in retribution or in pride.

_-i-_

When they are released from the main entrance the world seems different, though it has not changed in the hour they've been gone. The same men are still sparring in the training circle, under the critical eye and scolding mouth of the same instructor, and nearby Altair and Abbas are still battling it out in a patch of grass. At the moment a bored Altair has a struggling Abbas in some sort of chokehold, which is also par for the course.

But still Malik feels changed, yet again. A side glance at Kadar proves the same holds true for him: he struts beside his older brother with his chest puffed out. The latest addition to his uniform gleams in the sun.

"Oh," says Abbas as they draw near, "so they've taught you the Creed? That means you've gone up a rank."

"Yup," Kadar says happily. "Now we get to do sword-fighting like you." He looks with naked adoration at Altair's grumpy face. "I can't wait 'till I can throw daggers too."

"Get used to waiting," grunts the older boy. "You've got a while." He turns away, to throw punches at the air.

"I know but _still_."

"Come on, Kadar," Malik says. "_Dai_ Faraj wanted to see us before dinner."

"He just wanted to see you."

"Come along anyway. You should be practicing your writing more than you are."

"But Ma_lik_, I want to swordfight."

"You don't know how to swordfight yet! No one's taught you, remember?"

Abbas grins, or does something with his lips that's as close to a grin as his dour self usually manages. "Don't be so hard on him, Malik. Everyone wants to learn how to use a real weapon. It means you're that much closer to being sent out on missions, if Allah wills it so that is."

"Can't wait for that," Kadar agrees.

Altair, who has been supposedly ignoring the conversation, snorts and says to his invisible opponent, "As if a man as smart as Al Mualim would send beggars out on a mission."

Abbas frowns, and the insult goes right over Kadar's head, but Malik—Malik has fully joined the Brotherhood, and he has had enough.

"What beggars?" he demands, sliding in front of Altair with wide eyes, daring him to look away. "Which beggars would those be, Brother?"

For the first time in weeks, Altair looks directly at him. The smallest of smiles, meaning any one of a thousand things, plays about his lips. "You think you can challenge me?" he asks.

"Insult me again," Malik answers, "and I'll show you what I think."

Altair is quiet a while. "Men five ranks up wouldn't challenge me willingly," he murmurs, though he doesn't sound particularly happy about it. Malik ignores the conceit or the bravado or the whatever-it-is.

"Come on, Kadar," he says. "We're gonna be late."

He knows both Abbas and Altair are watching as they leave, but it doesn't matter. He is done fleeing or avoiding—since his village burned all he has done is dodge insults and rocks. No more of that. No more of that from Altair of all people! Malik's only just reached the first rank of the Order, but he's sure that even a Master Assassin couldn't feel as confidant as he does now.

_-i-_

Of course, confidence can't slow time, and it's a disheveled, chastened pair of brothers who finally present themselves to _Dai _Faraj, well over fifteen minutes late. They're worked hard as a result: Malik writes pages and pages until his wrist burns, and Kadar is scolded for badly-formed letters that the _Dai_ might normally forgive, then set to scrawling his name over and over until it resembles something other than _kleeve_. Malik suspects the _Dai_ suspects his frustration (they were only fifteen minutes late!) but keeps quiet rather than complain. Though his head pounds with the urge to consol his crestfallen brother, who looks more and more upset as hours go by without much improvement on _kleeve,_ he keeps his head bent over his own work.

After all, the Order accepts no excuses. The Order demands. And when demands are not met, punishments will follow. Malik knows this. He also knows it will do him and Kadar no good to seem whiny or inadequate; Altair isn't the only one with an eye for any festering signs of weakness.

The sky is dark and the night air chilly by the time _Dai_ Faraj finally releases them. Malik, who has spent the last hour and a half memorizing every bit of the Creed and its tenants, has a furious headache. When he closes his eyes he can see the words looping against the backs of his eyelids. Worst of all, he's expected to return before breakfast tomorrow to recite his lessons back to his instructor—and 'before breakfast' in the Brotherhood is a very unfortunate hour indeed. Probably there will still be _stars_.

Good-natured Kadar doesn't have the ability to pout for long, but he does want to know why he can't call himself Kadar but spell 'Kadar' as 'kleeve'. "It's easier," he argues as they trudge back to their sleeping quarters. "An' it's practically the same thing anyway."

"You know what _Dai_ Faraj always says," Malik reminds him tiredly. "Perfection and precision are the true weapons of a good assassin. Why can't you just make your letters look right? Your name's not that hard to spell."

"I spell it right sometimes but then the a's get smushed onto the d's and it's more fun to loop things around and…"

"Yeah, but your name isn't _Kleeve_. I don't even think that _is_ a name."

"I hate my name," Kadar grumbles. Malik glances at the dark smudging under his over-tired brother's eyes and decides not to comment. His writing arm aches, and his head aches worse—who knew that studying could be as laborious as a sparring session!

The dark, wide room is crowded with sleeping novices when they reach it. Malik holds the door open for Kadar, who basically sleepwalks his way in, and then closes it behind himself, carefully. The heavy old door is a test of ability, as everything about being an assassin is a test of some kind: new recruits, unable to keep its rusted hinges from squealing when moved, are quickly set upon by disparaging older Brothers. Malik has taken enough grief from the other boys about Kadar's nightmares, and doesn't need more because of a door.

(Still, there have been a few new recruits since the A-Sayf brothers arrived, and Malik hasn't tried to stop the door-related hazing, even if he doesn't usually partake in it himself. Assassins _should_ be able to enter a room without announcing their presence to the whole world, right?)

Two sets of sleeping mats and a small bundle of blankets and pillows have already been left besides one wall, in the usual place. Malik moves easily in the darkness to set up his bedding; Kadar burrows himself into a mound of blankets without bothering to actually put the blankets on the mat first. Indeed he's already rolled himself off the mat altogether.

He looks comfortable enough, though. Malik finds a place besides a snoring Rauf and settles into sleep.

Maybe half an hour later, he is wrenched out of such a deep slumber that it hurts. He can practically feel his bones groaning against the strain as he sits up, but there's no choice: from nearby come Kadar's soft whimpers.

"Again?" someone hisses, from a far corner of the dark room. "Shut him _up_."

Malik bristles, and is able to ignore the anonymous novice only through long-earned patience. He shifts on his hands and knees to Kadar's side and pulls the younger boy into his lap. "Hey," he says softly. "Hey, wake up."

Sometimes Kadar does wake up, blinking in bleary confusion and blushing once he realizes he's bothered half the room again. But other times, and tonight is one of those, he stays asleep. Once Malik reaches him, his thrashing limbs settle and his moaning ceases. His brow relaxes; he sighs deeply, peaceful now with the nightmare gone.

He'll sleep the rest of the night through with no problems, now that his nightmares have been chased away by his brother's guarding presence, but Malik stays at his side for a while anyway, strangely unexhausted. He thinks about the coming morning, and how _very_ early it will have to start. He thinks about the Creed, and Al Mualim, and the Master Assassin, missing a finger and resigned to loss. He thinks about the novices who are the most likely to grumble when Kadar wakes them up and make fun of him for it the next day—and he thinks, with a deliciously _nasty_ tinge, of all the things he'll do to those boys once he's strong enough.

He isn't sure how long he sits there, cradling Kadar in his lap, just in case an errant nightmare should pass this way again tonight. He isn't sure what time it is, only that it's late. But still, at some point deep into his quiet vigil, the back of his neck begins to crawl. He feels watched.

Malik turns his head. Yes…yes, _there_—Altair, curled up in his usual spot, back to the wall because, as he so often reminds everyone, true assassins must be prepared for attack even in sleep. And so at night, no matter how tired he is, he sleeps tense: hands curled into fists, lips pressed downwards into a natural grimace. Altair never manages to look relaxed, sleeping or no.

He is not sleeping now.

Malik stares at him, at his eyes. Altair is lying down but his eyes are open and clear, as if he's been awake for hours. They carry a certain golden sheen in the darkness, and Malik adds _cat_ to his list of animals Altair could represent. The two boys watch each other; Altair is unashamed at being caught spying, and doesn't bother to look away.

Altair's eyes flicker downwards, to take in Malik's tender grasp on his brother, and he smirks a bit. Malik can't even begin to unravel all the emotions in the action: irritation, derision, jealousy? Longing?

It seems that everywhere he goes, Malik has Altair's eyes upon him. By now he's almost used to it, though he still doesn't understand the other boy's great fascination.

"What?" he mouths.

Altair smiles. It is not a particularly nice one, because he can do nothing without a calculating edge. "Tomorrow," he mouths back.

Malik is confused for a moment, until he remembers—tomorrow he moves beyond the basic positions and starts serious fighting training, with real weapons. Tomorrow he will fight alongside Altair.

* * *

AN: This is a split chapter, so it's shorter than most of mine. I realize that the last chapter, this chapter, and presumably next chapter all end with Malik and Altair staring awkwardly at each other. Ah, young hate.


	9. Part One: Chapter Eight

AN: Before I say anything else, I want to say that large chunks of the fighting in this chapter are brought to you by **skywalker05.** She knows how to write fights, and indeed the differences between punches and pastries; I, on the other hand, get lost in a world of flashbacks and "oh wait this is a fight but no one's thrown a punch for the last three pages". I did write the very last fight on my own, which is why it's both short and probably silly. Still, there are some images in this chapter that I _like_. Such as…

There's a divide between everyone's favorite assassins; it develops in this chapter and it won't close in this story, in the game canon…I don't think it ever closes. There's this grey area of disconnect: Malik, of course, has Kadar to protect, but Altair knows nothing bigger than the Order. They're stuck on opposite sides, unable to see where the other's standing, unable even to understand that an opposing side exists. And if you ask me they'll both pay for that in different ways come Solomon's Temple.

(Oh and also this is another almost-13000-word-chapter please don't kill me beloved beta-reader-bff I'm sorry)

* * *

_**Son of No Name**_

"Again."

"And on the twelfth of August, Amunet moved against her opponent with due perqui…perquisi…"

"Perquisite. Again."

And on the twelfth of August, Amunet moved against her opponent with due perquisite. _Dai_?"

"Mm?"

"What's 'perquisite'?"

"Entitlement, reprisal, vengeance. What is due to all those who err against the people they profess to rule. Tonight before bed you might consider all the ways in which an assassin is allowed to seek vengeance, and all the ways in which he is not. Tomorrow we shall discuss the subject in more depth, with the aid of a particular scroll I think will be helpful."

"Yes, _Dai_."

"Now, continue."

"With the poison of the deadly asp she ended the hypocrisies of Cleopatra. In doing so all the Egyptian Brotherhood was thrown into great debate concerning the use of hidden poisons and the honor of the sword…"

Malik is eleven. Kadar has been seven for two months now. At this point most of the older novices have begun to split away, as their respective talents send them along different roads, and new recruits have been introduced to the Order and its Brotherhood. Some of the older boys have been sent to apprentice with the _Rafiks_ of Acre and Damascus, and those younger boys with real aptitude are set apart from the rest early. Rauf, who has a certain talent with a broadsword, has been taken under the wing of one of the senior fighting instructors; there are rumors that Abbas, with his grim features and stubborn nature, will be groomed into becoming one of the guards of Al Masyaf.

Altair has been spoken for by neither _Rafik_ nor instructor. He trains every day, all day, with every manner of weapons the instructors can find. Sometimes Al Mualim himself comes by whichever training ring Altair happens to be practicing in, to watch silently with an impassive gaze. Occasionally he will call Altair to the side and offer critique on a shaky stance, or—since there are few of those—a compliment on a strong attack. When this happens, Altair glows. He never looks happy, except for when the Master is there to watch his almost-son.

Malik, too, learns quickly, though perhaps not with Altair's inhuman skill. Al Mualim is pleased with his progress, though he saves the bulk of his quiet pride for Altair; Malik respects the Grandmaster immensely but does not worship his shadow as Altair so often does. And Malik _has_ been claimed, at least in part, by _Dai _Faraj in his sweeping, white robes.

He isn't the _Dai's_ apprentice. He still spends the bulk of his time fighting, meeting with Faraj only a few times a week. But these are a few times more than most of the novices, he knows. Why he has been given this strange in-between role, why he is kept from apprenticing but given the knowledge anyway, he hasn't been able to figure out. Whatever the reason, it explains why Altair still _watches_ him sometimes—they have both been marked as different from the rest, in some invisible way.

(It doesn't mean the two of them talk much. Altair has been cool towards Malik ever since that argument in the courtyard; Malik could probably break through the ice with an apology but has no interest in doing so. They fight side by side in training and work well enough as a team, but then all assassins are supposed to fight besides their Brothers.

So long as it doesn't affect his training, Malik cares little for the flawed anti-relationship he has with Altair. It isn't hard to hold a grudge.)

Malik has reached third rank by now, and his uniform has been altered accordingly: the widening of the red sash, the addition of the tight leather belt. His arms and legs have gained muscle from the fightwork; his hands are strong, the fingers callused. His hair is still streaked with sunlight because he's never developed a liking for the confines of the cowl, but he keeps it trimmed so that it doesn't fall into his eyes. There is nothing of the starving urchin in him now.

There is nothing of the boy who ran away.

He has been outside Masyaf only once, to a small hut within sight of the wooden walls in a pack of other nervous novices. It was their first mission, a training one with nothing real at stake save for self-respect; Altair bossed everyone around, Rauf distracted the few guards they passed, and Malik with his strong reading skills was the one to sift through the pile of documents and find the requested one. Then they traipsed back to the village, less nervous and more boisterous, proud of themselves as true assassins although there'd been no cause to ever draw a dulled sword from its holster. Kadar, younger than the rest and thus behind them in lessons, begged for the details and sighed with awe.

(Awe directed at Malik, of course, but also at His Holiness Altair. Which was _annoying_. True, Altair had thrown a dagger, but he'd mistaken an overlarge _bird_ for a guard. And then had insisted it was a _dangerous_ bird so as to avoid admitting his mistake.)

So the days continue, under the hot Syrian sun. Assassins come and go, on missions secret and announced. Sometimes they are dragged back into the fortress, bleeding and wild-eyed, limbs shredded and tunics torn. Sometimes they don't come back at all. None of the novices ever mention this, but Malik knows that it worries them all, because it worries him. To die on a mission…and what if it's the _first_ mission? Even Altair swings his sword a little harder when an assassin fails to return.

"Malik?" _Dai_ Faraj sweeps across his cluttered room. "Have you any questions before I send you on your way?"

Malik clutches at the heavy book in his hands and shakes his head. It's the damndest thing: the more he reads, the less he seems to understand. _Dai_ Faraj has him struggling through thick tomes now, many handwritten, all warped with age to be nigh unreadable at times. In the back of the book he holds now, a detailed account of the Master Assassin Amunet, are three chapters written in French. French! The language of the Templars! Malik took one look at the jagged, rough up-and-down of the letters and felt queasy. Barely has he learned the soft, sinuous pattern of elegant Arabic script, then they make him learn another language from the very beginning! Fortunately, Faraj has assured him that the French—and English, and Latin, and Germanic—lessons will come later on.

"Finish this chapter for next week, then," _Dai_ Faraj decides. "Commit it to memory, as you have the rest of the book."

Malik tries to hide his grimace. For all that it's interesting to read of a female assassin fighting hundreds of years ago, the book makes for rather dry bedtime reading. Plus every time he pulls it out, Rauf wants to know if there are any pictures, preferably of said female assassin doing, well, just about anything at all, because supposedly Egyptian women before the time of the Prophet Mohammad used to walk around with bare heads and bare legs, _and_ they used to mark various naked parts of themselves with ink, so if there were any _pictures_ of those parts, then…

Malik does not understand Rauf sometimes.

(Although Rauf isn't the only one. Many a novice has attempted to sneak into the Master's garden, only to get hauled out, stammering and flushing, by one of the hulking guards. Many a novice has gushed about some girl with shimmering eyes spotted carrying well water in the village. Malik thinks they're all crazy, although he is starting to be able to appreciate a good set of legs himself: it's not as though you can _see_ any bit of those fabric-draped village girls!)

"Amunet," says _Dai_ Faraj, "is my favorite of the old Masters. Do you know why I've had you focus on her over Leonius or Iltani?"

Malik shakes his head. Part of his mind is already on tracking down Kadar and sharing with him the meaning of the word 'perquisite'. Kadar has never been able to improve much on his handwriting but he's keen as ever for what his brother can teach him. There are still nightmares to contend with—rare, but they do return on foggy, unsettled nights—and on those nights they sit up talking afterward, no matter how early the next morning will start. Malik teaches Kadar new words, new curses, new legends and new myths. During the day he teaches him new fighting moves as well; there's probably some rule against it, but preparing Kadar for the dangers of assassins comes before any rule. There is no Creed so mighty it goes before his duty to protect.

"Amunet was an Egyptian goddess," _Dai_ Faraj says. "She was the goddess of air, of invisibility. From what the books report, these qualities were found in her assassin namesake as well. The mortal Amunet, it was said, could move so silently it was as if she didn't exist. In a room crowded with guards none saw her strike."

"Oh," says Malik, politely.

_Dai_ Faraj's eyes glint and he strokes at his beard, something he does when excited. "Do you see, Malik, how names have power? They can foretell our destiny, though no one is yet sure how. They can tell us who we are or who we were meant to be. Or who we'll become." A smile. "I know you would rather be throwing daggers than listening to an old man read battle histories. But your name gives you the strength to be king of more than just swords."

Malik blinks at him, confused. "My name? What do you mean?"

"Ah! Has no one ever told you the meaning behind your name? It is such a fitting one." Faraj reaches for a loose scrap of paper and a quill, motioning Malik over to the table. After shifting things around to make room he draws out Malik's name, his hand quick and his letters perfect. Then, underneath, he writes (and narrates aloud as he does so): "_Malik_. Common translations tend towards 'the owner', though I personally prefer 'the king'." He underlines the last bit and continues on, "_A-Sayf_. 'The sword'. Put together we have…"

"The King of the Sword," Malik breathes. _Amazing_. His whole life he'd had such a ferocious name, and yet he'd never known.

"Exactly." Faraj looks delighted. "A good, strong name. You shall have to practice diligently to keep up with it. Your brother's name, by the way, means 'destiny'."

"Destiny of the Sword?" Malik tilts his head in consideration. It's a strange combination. No doubt Kadar is connected with the blade, but then, they _all_ are—assassins always are. So what could the name mean for him in particular, if anything at all?

Then another thought strikes him. "What about Altair?" he asks, not really sure _why_ he's asking, sure only that he needs to know. "What does his name mean?"

"Altair Ibn La'Ahad," murmurs the _Dai. _"A strange addition to a sad tale. Had his father survived…"

"What do you mean?" Up until now Malik has only ever heard rumors of Altair's being abandoned. Being orphaned is another thing entirely.

But the question is ignored. "The name _Altair_ means 'the flying one' according to literal translations, but 'the eagle' is more fitting."

"Fitting for what?"

"For the Brotherhood. It's quite rare for a child to be born directly into the Order, and so his father gave him a name that would fit such a heavy heritage."

"His father was an assassin?" Malik is dazed. Who knew? Altair certainly doesn't know! "Altair's father was part of the Brotherhood? Then how did he die?"

_Dai_ Faraj presses his lips together. "You asked me about names, Malik, not lineage. His first name is 'the eagle' and his last…"

"_Ibn_ is 'son of'," Malik says. "A lot of people have that. But _La'Ahad_ is weird. I've never heard of it before."

'"No one'," says Faraj quietly. "The Eagle, Son of None. Given to him by the Grandmaster after the death of his father. Master Al Mualim felt there was no need to encourage family ties when the family was dead…he felt that such connections could only do harm." There is a certain tone to the _Dai's_ words now; he doesn't seem aware of it, but Malik's careful ears pick it up clear as anything. There's disapproval there…there's disagreement with the Master's choice. "He chose a name that led to no burdens and no past. Altair was a small child when his father was killed. He doesn't remember his original name, and I doubt he remembers much of the parents who gave it to him."

Malik doesn't know what to say. The name is so stark, so foreboding. Why, he wonders, would Al Mualim choose a name bereft of any comfort? Must assassins be reminded of their separation every time they see themselves reflected in a mirror's edge? Altair the Son of None, being trained into assassinhood from birth by a father dead some few years in…

And Altair doesn't know that at least one parent remained by his side for as long as life allowed. Altair believes he's been abandoned, though he might profess not to care, and it's this belief that allows the others to mock him as a half-breed thrown out with the garbage. Al Mualim must have seen the teasing, the wounds picked open before they could fully close. And yet he's allowed this novice he supposedly loves most of all to go on believing as he does, to wade through a life harsher than it needed to be.

Malik asks, "What was Altair's real name? The one his father used?"

_Dai _Faraj frowns deeper and shakes his head. "I don't remember it," he says, and his voice warns against any further questions. "No one does."

"But Master Al Mualim—"

"Would not be happy with your interrogation. Now focus on things more pertinent to your own life. Consider, for example, the chapter you were to have memorized for today…"

_-i-_

Though the entrance into the main courtyard is blocked by gates and guards, the fortress itself exists in smaller buildings and outcroppings all the way down to the base of the village. On one of these buildings, a watchtower with stone walls and a wooden structure for the guards at the top, Malik sits and watches the crowds. The main road to the fortress proper curves past the watchtower built on a little chunk of land jutting out above the river. From his current position, sitting with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out on a wooden beam imbedded into the stone for easier climbing (climbing being the assassin's preferred way to get anywhere), Malik has a clear view of the road, the people, the walls that block the fortress and the towers that rise behind them. In the other direction, only just visible behind hills and other buildings, is the village itself.

Today is a market day in Al Masyaf, and the roads are crowded. Even now, with the sun beginning to sink behind the fortress, the pathway into the main courtyard is filled with villagers, informants, and assassins back from missions. Al Mualim will meet with many of them: he himself often deals with the complaints of the people, the news brought back by merchants, the offerings of those who wish to ally with the Brotherhood's cause.

Malik isn't thinking of assassins right now, though. Mostly he's thinking that he misses market days. It was fun, as a little kid, to help Mother by carrying her baskets, or by bargaining with the merchants so she didn't have to speak to strange men. He's never been to the Masyaf market, save for that first terrible time with the vegetable seller; he has no coin of his own, and anyway the Brotherhood attends to all his needs.

"There she is. Look, Malik, look over there, walking by that haystack. See her? She's the one I was telling you about." Rauf had been sitting on another wooden beam higher up, leaving his legs about level with Malik's face. Now he flips himself over and hooks his legs around it, dangling underneath to point with his head craned as far back as he can get it in an attempt to both look dramatic and actually be able to see. His cowl slides off his head, further obstructing vision; only Altair can somehow keep his on when upside down. "See her? Right over there."

Malik raises an eyebrow. The woman in question is hidden beneath her long, green dress and tightly wrapped headscarf. A heavy black veil is drawn across the lower half of her face, so that only her eyes, brown and outlined with kohl, are visible. By her side is an older man, her husband or brother or father. Rauf watches from his awkward angle until the next hill blocks her from view, then sighs.

"Pretty, right? I think I'm gonna marry her."

"Have you talked to her, ever? Does she know you exist?"

Rauf grins, "She will when she marries me."

"You're only _twelve_."

"So? My father was twelve when he got married. My mother was eleven!"

"Well, she doesn't look eleven or twelve. She looks like she's sixteen and she's probably already married. Besides." Malik grins and flicks his fingers at Rauf's forehead. "You're an _assassin_."

Rauf wrinkles his nose. "She's still pretty."

"I guess. Kinda hard to tell."

"Did you know that the women in Al Mualim's garden don't wear _any_thing?"

"Who told you that?"

"Abbas told me that Raed told him that this one assassin knows this informer in Damascus who used to train with a Master Assassin who got to go in the garden whenever he wanted. And he said that—"

"Wait, who said what?"

"Abbas said. The assassin Raed knows told him what the informer said, and the informer got his information from the Master Assassin. Rashid told Abbas that the ladies don't wear anything and only Master Assassins and the Grandmaster get to go inside. Oh, and sometimes Al Mualim will let people he doesn't trust go inside and later the ladies tell him what they found out. They're like spies and he said they can kill people even quicker then most assassins if they have to."

"Who's _he_ again? Wait, no, he's Raed, who was talking to Abbas, who…wait."

"Don't make me repeat the whole thing again," Rauf moans. "My head hurts from trying to keep it straight the first time."

"No," Malik says, "Your head hurts because you've been hanging upside down for five minutes." Rauf considers this, bobs his head, and pulls himself back up onto the beam. "What Raed said probably isn't true, you know."

"Abbas sure thinks it's true. You could tell because he was blushing and ranting about immodesty and Allah."

"He would." Malik gazes off at the horizon, at the mountains he once trekked through with Kadar in tow. He isn't hungry now, isn't skinny or scared or helpless to protect his little brother. He no longer has trouble believing in towers that scrape the sky. And he hasn't bowed down in prayer in a very long time. He'd tried to stay faithful, for his father if nothing else, but every time he went to join the very few assassins preparing for the daily rituals, Altair smirked wide and nasty. Eventually the stress of it was more noticeable then whatever benefit there might be in religion.

Not that Malik makes his decisions based on Altair's approval. Who cares what Altair cares about? No one. Even his name says as much. Altair the son of none…

Rauf folds his arms and leans back against the watchtower. The beams he and Malik sit on are, though old, more than strong enough to bare their weight; despite the not-insignificant distance to the ground, there's no fear of falling. "He's been really grumpy lately."

Malik grunts, distracted. "Hard to tell, isn't it? He's always so sour."

"Heh, I guess. But he's not usually so sour to me. Yesterday I asked him if I could have his leftover stew and he started growling about gluttony."

"Like he cares," Malik says derisively.

"I dunno. He takes that religion stuff pretty seriously."

"What religion? He spends half his life talking about how much better of an assassin he is because he doesn't believe in God."

Rauf blinks in slow confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"What are _you_ talking about?" Malik narrows his eyes at the mountains. "You haven't heard him bragging about it? Damn it, I'm so sick of him staring at me all the time and refusing to tell me why. And he's so nasty to Kadar. I don't get why Kadar's always fawning over him like he's Al Mualim. Just because he's good with a sword." Stupid Altair. Stupid arrogant idiot with no family. He doesn't even have a real _name_. "One of these days Altair is going to really piss someone off. I hope I'm there to see it—"

"Wait, Altair?" Rauf shakes his head. "I was talking about _Abbas_."

"You—what? Oh." Malik feels a burning flush crawl up his neck. He finally tears his eyes away from the horizon, only to see Rauf staring at him in bemusement. "I thought you were…"

Rauf drums his fingers against his thigh. "Altair stares at you?" he asks.

Malik opens his mouth to stammer out an answer, but before he can say anything someone at the base of the watchtower clears his throat. Both novices look down, and sure enough: Altair is standing there, arms folded, looking his usual icy self. If he heard the conversation, he gives no sign of it.

"Done training for the day?" Rauf calls down.

"What true assassin would be done before the sunset? I was looking for Malik."

"Well, you found him. Wanna see the girl I'm gonna marry? There's another beam up here to sit on and I bet she'll come back this way any time now."

"I have better things to do, and so do you. Malik was supposed to spar with me this afternoon."

"Was he?" says Malik. "You know I'm _right here_, don't you?"

Altair drags his eyes over towards Malik, as if the effort's almost too great to be bothered with. "You shouldn't be. You should be training. You've only been working with that new sword for a week now. How do you expect to wield it well with no practice?"

"What business is it of yours?" Malik snaps. Ok, so he probably _should_ have been practicing, but he'd been planning on doing just that _after_ dinner. Why did the rare afternoon off require a lecture from, of all people, Altair?

"I don't want my own skills rusting because of your laziness. Come down here so we can practice."

"Find somebody else." Malik huffs, folds his arms across his chest in an unconscious parody of the other boy. "There's no shortage of novices who would be delighted to fight you."

Then Altair says something strange: "There's no one else worth fighting," he mutters, and turns his head. Malik raises an eyebrow. That wasn't a straight compliment—Altair doesn't know how to give compliments—but it was _something_. Something different than his usual bile. Something similar to that night months ago, when Altair sat watching him in the dark, eager for the coming morning and the first time they would fight by each other's side…

Whatever it is, it gets Malik moving; he climbs his way down the watchtower without daring to reflect on why.

As his feet touch ground he hears Rauf say, "Hey, Altair, make sure Abbas doesn't see you showing off. He's been so irritated since your last bout with him that he might break something. Probably himself."

Altair sneers upwards. "Perhaps if he wants to stop shaming himself in front of the instructors he should stop walking into my fists."

"You're ridiculous," Malik tells him with a sigh. Altair rolls his eyes and doesn't answer.

The walk back to the main courtyard is short but filled with awkward silences. Malik feels the blood pumping through his limbs, feels his heart beat faster at the thought of what comes next. He's practiced alongside Altair plenty of times, has drilled and worked besides the older boy, and for the most part has been able to hold his own. But they rarely face off _against_ one another; Malik prefers to avoid those watching hawk's eyes when he can. And now that they're actually going to fight—

He is determined to hold his own. Unlike Abbas, he won't walk into any punches.

The ring in the main courtyard is empty for them to use, which suits Altair's exhibitionist tendencies just fine. Malik waits while he fetches the swords: dulled blades are all novices of their rank have access to, but they can still draw plenty of blood. When Malik reaches out to take his, he moves it from hand to hand, testing the weight of it. Somehow, holding a sword feels natural. It fits into his hand and he can't understand why he'd ever want to let go.

Altair faces him, blade in hand. Though he's clearly trying for his usual disinterest, his impassive face can't hide the glimmering excitement in his eyes. This is a practice fight, but it's one that's been brewing since Malik joined the Order and they both know it. He hasn't been sword-fighting all that long, considering, but already he is beginning to understand his strengths and Altair's weaknesses. He is careful, perhaps too careful at times, but he has a budding precision in his strikes that will be a real danger, one day. And he is quiet.

One of the common exercises is being sent to jump an older novice, at some random hour of the day, the idea being that the younger will learn stealth and the older will be reminded not to forget it. It's a hard task, sneaking up on those with well-honed skills—Rauf, for one, has yet to manage it without giving himself away. Last time he tried his target threw a dagger without even looking up from the midday bread and olives.

But Malik is getting quite good at it. Maybe it comes from all that desert trudging, forced to keep out of sight of bored villagers and soldiers both. Maybe it comes from being looked at as _beggar_ and _orphan_ and _little kid_ for so long. _Where are your parents? You're far too young. _But he did the job of an adult, didn't he? He saved Kadar, he brought them here.

He is quiet, and because no one expects his attack no one is well-defended.

Altair has his own strengths, of course. Malik has half a second to wonder at that before there's a sword swinging for his face and the battle is brought before him.

Barely able to mask his surprised exclamation, Malik darts backwards. The two boys prowl around the courtyard, sticking in their inexperience to the their respective traits: Malik keeps his distance, circling slowly, eyes narrowed in concentration. A blind spot there? An opening now? Meanwhile Altair appears to be gathering his strength, hunching his shoulders until the white cloth of his clothing bunches and layers like feathers. From watching him fight Malik knows that he is fast, and sudden, reckless in his wide swings, and relentless when finally he—

Altair lunges, and suddenly the distance between them is gone. Malik drags his sword up just in time for a messy block. He scowls: such amateur defenses aren't likely to win much respect. Altair strikes again, attacking from every angle, so fast it shouldn't be real. It's all Malik can do to parry the blows and bide his time. His arms start to ache in ways they never do from climbing.

(Dimly he is aware of a crowd gathering around the ring, but the beat of his pulse in his ears is too loud for the growing murmurs of interest.)

Altair darts forward again. His sword point loops and pushes Malik's toward the dirt. As Malik steps to get out of the flourishing bind his ankles almost tangle and he stumbles to the side as the swords, ringing, finally part. Altair isn't smiling—he takes fighting so seriously—and every twitch of his body is an extension of the weapon in his hands. It's obvious now that he was a child of the assassins from birth, it makes sense and it means he's most at home when fighting. No one would dare call him a half-breed in the training ring.

Malik pushes himself toward the fence to regain his footing. The crowd is murmuring, their voices rising and falling like wind in correspondence to the action in the ring, but he doesn't understand their words. They aren't important enough for him to care. What's important is not to retreat. Altair is waiting for him, sword held swaying at his side like Malik isn't even worth a proper stance. So Malik takes one instead, bringing the playing field back to neutral. He starts to circle. Altair starts to look over his shoulder.

Malik runs at him. His first hit, aimed for Altair's shoulder, glances off the other boy's blade. Altair's boots kick up dust as he turns. Malik had planned for him to turn, though, or at least in case of it—his second strike follows up the first and smacks across Altair's stomach with the flat of the blade. Malik's sweating hands nearly slide off with the impact. He hadn't meant to turn the sword to the flat side; he'd simply misjudged the distance, and everyone could see that.

But Altair just keeps turning. He reaches out and cuffs the back of Malik's head with his elbow, the sword flashing out of the corner of Malik's eye. No one is calling for them to stop. The crowd is only getting louder, but he knows that none of the combat instructors' voices are in it. No one is here to stop them.

Another whirl and they're facing each other almost too close for swords, Altair's arm still extended. Malik reaches over it and punches.

The attack grazes Altair's cheek, mostly hitting the cowl. Altair sweeps his sword low, forcing Malik to jump back. He watches Altair's face, only really able to see the snarling brace of white teeth and the sun-reddened tendons standing up on his neck. It seems like Altair is about to say something, or maybe he's just showing his fangs—

Altair charges. What was at first simply a surprising bulrush becomes a simply surprising flurry of sword-strikes. Malik's body is beginning to ache with the effort of avoiding the other boy's attacks. One goes wide, but Malik uses the time to try to remember a disarmament technique recently demonstrated by the fighting instructor. How did it work? Dodge a blow, slide around the attacker's outstretched arm and grab his wrist before he can begin to pull back, jerk the sword from his hand and shove his body away at the same instance…

Not that there's enough time for that. There are other moves Malik knows far better, but suddenly they aren't enough. Fighting shouldn't be about thinking—it should be about seeing one target after another target like they're painted in light. He can't think now because wherever his thoughts go his hands follow after, but wherever his hands go there is Altair blocking them. Altair is flashy and arrogant and rude but he's _good_. He recovers well from whatever small missteps there are in his fighting; he's so unable to admit his mistakes that he simply doesn't make any. His enthusiasm makes him move like a boulder rolling down a hill: there isn't even a question of stopping it, only of avoiding the blow before it can crack down upon its victim. And Altair manages to combine that rocklike forward momentum with an assassin's grace. It wouldn't work for anyone else in the world but it works for Altair. And Malik wants to steal some of that luck for himself.

(After all, there is a crowd watching. After all, Kadar will want to know the details.)

Unexpectedly Altair ducks low, sword handle gripped tightly in both hands, and thrusts upwards. A quick, weaker part in the back of Malik's mind tenses, imagining the metal pushed into the soft flesh of his stomach. But it doesn't quite reach. Malik's tunic rips with a barely perceptible tearing sound, but the sword doesn't break the skin. There are a few cuts and bruises flecking his arms and chest but he's too distracted to notice: as Altair straightens up, Malik sees the opportunity and throws himself on the offensive.

It lasts for all of five seconds.

The instructor's maneuver that he wanted to try comes across as mere sloppy positioning in lesser-skilled hands. All Altair has to do is grab the arm that's trying to grab his wrist. He jerks that arm up and then _forward_, with Malik too surprised by the spectacular failure to dig his heels into the ground and pull free. (And breaking out of holds is something they've all been taught. Not even a child would lose his balance as Malik does now, but his attention is still snared by Altair's hot hand on his wrist.) A well-aimed elbow to the back of the head sends him sprawling. Coughing, cursing, teeth bared, he rolls himself onto his back and tenses all his limbs—

Altair's sword is a mere inch from his throat.

Malik freezes. They stare at each other, dark brown eyes reflecting back light brown. The inane thought floats through Malik's mind that _Christians sometimes have blue eyes, and wouldn't it be odd if Altair did as well?_ For that minute the only sound is of both boys' heavy breathing: the noise of the crowd feels very far away.

He's dead. Malik's dead.

The blade's tip hovers at the base of his throat. If this was a real fight, against a real target, if the sword was sharpened and held in a hand a little less steady…well, then he'd be dead. His throat would be sliced open and pouring blood onto the hard-packed dirt. He imagines what it would be like to die that way: his chest heaving with the need for air, his lungs burning for the lack of it, involuntary little retching noises being thrust from his gasping mouth…

The fight's lasted almost five minutes, and it's over. Never mind that no other novice has been able to last against Altair for more than three. The bitter disappointment raging through Malik's system is matched only by the same disappointment in Altair's Arab-brown eyes. _They should be blue_, he thinks viciously, and then regrets it: his flaws are not Altair's fault. His flaws are his own.

Slowly, Altair lowers his sword. Slowly, Malik gets back to his feet.

"That's it," Altair says. "I've beaten you." Malik rubs his sore arm and says nothing. "It was barely challenging," Altair says, as if he's confused somehow by the outcome. "I've beaten the other novices and now I've beaten you."

_What version of me did you have in your head before this?_ Malik wonders. _And why was it me that you focused on?_

"A good fight!" someone calls, and they both turn to see the fighting instructor standing on the other side of the ring, nodding in satisfaction. "Very good. You should be proud of your defensive skills, Malik. But your attacks need more focus. The details of the kill are as important as the kill itself."

Malik nods. _Yes_, he thinks fiercely, _I'll work on that. On the details. He'll see the next time we fight. _He swears this to himself, with something approaching vengeance coiling in his heart.

_-i-_

There are dummies made of straw, bound with thick rope to wooden posts and mounted in both the main courtyard and several smaller ones. Their use is reserved for higher ranks than his, but Malik asks for and receives special permission from the fighting instructor. In his spare moments, between meals or once the sun has plunged the fortress into shadow, he lunges at the dummies and imagines Altair. He punches and kicks, throws up handfuls of dirt to cloud his onslaught, tries to picture his immobile opponent as something armed and sneering.

His knuckles begin to crack and bleed from the constant scrapping of skin against straw. He doesn't notice until one day in the training ring, when he throws a punch at Rauf that misses but draws blood anyway. He looks in surprise at his hands and finds blood smearing into the whorls of his fingertips and underneath his nails.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," says Rauf, dropping his stance. (Altair would never do that. Altair would never fight differently in training than anywhere else.) "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Malik studies the swollen knuckles of his left fist, his weaker one, and wonders if it'd bled last night. He isn't allowed use of the dummies at night, but he'd stumbled across a small room with a latticed ceiling, open to the stars, in which one had been set up. There is always something new to discover in the fortress of Al Masyaf, and Malik put his new find to good use—but even with the starlight, it'd been too dark to see blood on the straw, if indeed there'd been some.

"Why don't we take a break?" Rauf asks, hardly bothering to disguise his own panting hope. "We've been practicing for hours. Look, Nasr is holding his own against Raed. They've both gotten better with swords, why don't we…"

But Malik straightens himself back into his stance. (Altair would not stop.) "We're supposed to be practicing."

Rauf moans. "We've _been_ practicing. You're bleeding and I'm exhausted. Anyway all the instructors say that we're supposed to watch our Brothers and learn from their mistakes."

"Nasr uses his sword like a club. He isn't graceful enough with the blade and he doesn't pay attention to balance. Raed is too stubborn to change his attack strategy when it needs to be changed, so he walks himself into traps he's already foreseen." Malik looks over at the two novices, eyes sharp. "I've been watching. I know not to make those mistakes. Now come on. Unless you want to go back to swords for a while…"

"I think Abbas is right," Rauf complains, curling his hands back into fists. "He said last night you'd been possessed by a _djinn_ and I think he's right."

Malik smiles and waits for the blow.

_-i-_

He learns. He learns quickly.

The instructors tell him to try a broadsword or a short knife, and dutifully he does, but Malik is more comfortable with the long sword he's been using. The instructors tell him that he will be ready to try throwing daggers soon, and he does look forward to that.

It's just that he isn't as good with the more showy moves of the shorter weapons: the whirls, the gaudy flicks of the wrist. With a sword he can strike hard and precise; he's gathered by watching other assassins that throwing daggers requires a similar basic grasp of aim and speed. Malik has learned the hard way that he isn't suited for the flashy displays that are so natural for Altair.

Weeks go by, weeks and then months. He keeps practicing. He keeps pushing himself. His knuckles bleed a while longer and then the skin toughens and the cracks heal. His sober, focused expressions make him look fifteen, not eleven. When Rauf begs weariness he goes off in search of Abbas or Raed or a straw dummy. At night, assuming he isn't slogging through one of _Dai_ Faraj's endless texts or fighting off Kadar's bad dreams, he makes his careful way back to that small room with stars gleaming through the roof and practices some more.

He never talks to Altair when not forced to during training, but with every punch he throws and every sidestep he perfects, he pictures those brown eyes. Pictures losing to those eyes again. The odd thing is, assuming he did lose another fight to Altair, he isn't sure who would be more disappointed. And he isn't sure why that is.

"I know Altair's never happy, but I feel like he's been avoiding everyone lately," Rauf comments at dinner one night when the novice in question doesn't show. "All he does is train and beat up practice partners and fawn at the Master's hemline when he gets to see it. Did someone piss him off more than usual? Maybe Nasr called him a half-breed donkey's son again."

"Why is Altair being angry worth reporting?" Abbas demands. "It'd be one thing if he acted like a normal human being. His arrogance isn't worth the effort of speech."

"Someone's jealous. You pray all the time but he's still better than you."

"If Altair's upset, then I thank Allah for it," Abbas growls. "He should learn what it is to be humble."

"You'd think he would be," Malik murmurs, and is relieved when no one hears him. _You'd think he'd want to fit in, but even his name sets him apart._

With chunks of bread in both hands Kadar says, "I asked him to show me that fancy jump he does, the one where he goes _backwards _off a wall, but he said he didn't have time for teaching the hopeless masses and stormed away. I dunno why the masses matter, though, 'cause I was only asking him to show me."

"He's an ass," says Malik. "I wish you'd figure that out already."

But Kadar, of course, doesn't seem the least bit offended. "It's probably a hard move to teach. I've seen him use it an' he can get so high up the wall I couldn't even hit him with a rock. And then he just drops down on someone like a—like a bird or something. Birds swoop down to get their dinner, I know they do 'cause I've seen them, and that's what Altair looks like with that jump. A'course," and finally Kadar bothers to pause for air, "when I tried it I fell into a bush. Malik, are you gonna eat your roll?"

"Why were you climbing walls? Don't just climb walls. Until the instructors teach you how to climb walls you shouldn't climb them."

"But I'm getting really good at it."

"You fell into a bush."

"Well, I'm getting really good at the climbing part. The getting down part is hard."

"You are going to crack open your silly skull."

"It's fine," Kadar says serenely. "There are a lot of bushes. Can I have your roll?"

"You are ridiculous. Still can't make your handwriting legible but you think you can climb towers like a Master Assassin."

"It wasn't a _tower_. You're as grouchy as Altair." Kadar points, across the room. "Speaking of Altair, isn't that him over there?"

When Malik turns quickly to look, Kadar steals his roll.

_-i-_

The sun hangs low in the sky, a bright spot in a sea of dull orange light. Kadar stands on the hard-packed earth and watches, and Malik doesn't know where to begin. It's one thing to learn the arts of assassins for himself, having the steps and strikes and ways to balance drilled into him every morning before the sun's up and the doves start cooing. It's another thing to look at Kadar—wide-eyed, still young in Malik's head even though he's growing almost fast enough to watch—and figure out how to teach him.

"Go on," Kadar says with interest. "What do I gotta do?"

"Um," says Malik, and hits the pole.

It's a rope-wrapped plank set up in the corner of the courtyard. It still scrapes against his fingers, but he's worked up to this from the cloth bag hanging in front of Kadar. Malik's hands are rougher now; soft on the palm but calloused on the top of the knuckles. Eventually all assassins end up like this.

And then of course they lose their finger at one calloused knuckle, but Malik doesn't want to think about that. Or at least, not yet.

"Malik! What do I do with this?"

"Oh. Here. Take your stance..."

Hands at waist height, knees bent, shoulders loose. You could walk down a street like this in robes and no one would suspect you, so this is the stance that assassins learn to strike from. Some of them walk with the eagle hunch all the time (Altair, for instance, does it as if he were born in a nest), but only people form the fortress can recognize it for what it is.

Kadar stands in front of his target. He falls into the stance easily. He has been training with his own instructors.

Malik says, "Ready?"

"Yeah." Kadar stares down the bag. Then, a moment later, "Ready for what?"

"Punching."

"Oh. Ok. I can do that!"

Malik smiles at his brother's unrelenting eagerness. Then he raises his hand and motions him to begin.

They start out slow. The hot, painful scrape of the rope against Malik's hands fades and grows again as he works faster. Every once in a while Kadar looks at him, but when there is no sign of the older brother stopping the younger one goes back to glaring at the bag and sweating. After some time—Malik couldn't have said how much but it's what feels right to his mental clock—he switches to moving around, throwing punches at the air.

"Malik?"

"Move in circles. Imagine you can see your opponent. Vary the location of your punches. Up, down, around."

Kadar takes a patch of ground far enough away for both of them to have a decent range of movement, as if they were trying to get to the blind side of the enemy. "Brother?" he asks after a while.

"Yes?"

"Are those the same words your instructor used?"

"Ah. Yes."

"Okay."

So they shadowbox together, shadows occasionally overlapping. Malik imagines that his enemy is one of the village guards the novices are often sent out to stalk. Hit under the arm, over the kidney, up across the face...

Two rotations later, Malik switches directions and his imagined opponent is Altair. His strikes get faster. Sometimes he turns his wrist without realizing it, and with a flick—hidden blade _here._

Shadowboxing isn't a substitute for real fighting, but Malik can't bring himself to offer to fight Kadar. It would be uneven, for one thing; Kadar is still small and growing. And he doesn't want to hurt him. He is, now, in the mood for punching through something, and he doesn't want that something to be his brother.

The board won't break under his hands, but he can still picture the gradual yield as he strikes a real person under the ribs or at the neck just above the collar. Maybe it's Altair, and maybe it's a faceless white-robed concept that he dances with on the stones of Masyaf on this afternoon.

Every time he pretends to hit he feels the same strange compression of space and time, like a little white-gold glow of _target hereherehere— _

It's so easy to fight this way: every blow landing, every enemy ever-living. Tagging each target is as simple as falling and hitting the ground. Al Mualim, in one of his rare appearances, spoke of learning to focus so entirely on a target that even the colors changed. Eagle's vision, he called it, a special and advanced technique: honing in on bright-gold prey, knowing the position of guards in shrill reds, ignoring what didn't matter in grey. Not all assassins can master this vision, Al Mualim had said.

Lately Malik's begun to notice streaks of color where there shouldn't have been any, and wonders if he's building his own eagle's vision. Is this also something Altair can do?

And then his breath starts to come shallow and his arms feel heavier. Imagined target points become thin air. And Kadar is speaking. Malik turns to see his younger brother standing still, sweat dripping out of his black hair and across his forehead. He's immediately worried. Did he push Kadar too hard? Did he lose track of time?

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. It's just...you looked lost. And my arms are tired."

Malik leans down to touch Kadar's shoulder. "Don't let Master Al Mualim hear that. Assassins aren't allowed to be tired."

"But, um. Oh." Kadar looks stricken. "_I'm_ not tired, though, just my arms."

"We don't have to keep using arms," Malik laughs. "Follow me." And he takes off at a run.

Halfway out the gate of the fortress, legs pumping and entirely new sorts of stress starting up in the back of his throat, Malik watches Kadar pass him. The younger brother's robes flap behind him as, tiredness forgotten, he pounds down the open path.

_-i-_

The map unfurled across _Dai_ Faraj's table is not a large one: it is only of Al-Masyaf, after all, and there is only so much of Al-Masyaf to be transcribed. But it is detailed, down to the muddy alleyways choked with refuse, noticed only by hungry dogs and rats. At the bottom of the map is a list of symbols, for everything from the river to the placement of haystacks. Even the village's few rooftop gardens and balconies have been given mention.

Malik studies the map without really seeing it. He is worn out from the hard few months he's had: his fingers have gripped a sword so tightly for so long that it hurts to straighten them out. Last night he slept so deeply that not even Kadar's nightmare woke him up; luckily it was a minor one and the younger boy calmed himself down while half-asleep, but that didn't ease the damage done. Since he's begun this hectic training schedule it feels as though he's being pulled in all directions. Here: he must practice his jumps from high places. Here: he must get better at drifting through crowds unseen, unmarked by his assassin's uniform even while he wears it. Here: his brother needs him and so he must be there and ready.

But Malik is only eleven, approaching twelve. There are only so many hours to the day.

With all the fightwork, he's had little time for other subjects. He stills meets with _Dai _Faraj once or twice a week, but his interest in old books and ancient prophets is waning. Memorizing the philosophies of mad Roman emperors dead these past hundreds of years will not help him hold his own against Altair. And, oh, he _must_ hold his own!

When he practice-fights against Abbas, or Rauf, or any other of his fellow novices, he sometimes wins and sometimes loses. When Rauf challenges him to a run across Masyaf's rooftops, in order to practice a long jump they've both just learned, he will occasionally misjudge where to put his feet. No assassin is perfect, save for perhaps the few Master Assassins and Al Mualim, and there is much to learn in making mistakes. From them, for instance, Malik learns that he has a tendency to misread distances and jump too soon, so that he must frantically grab for any crevice in the next building's wall in an attempt to keep from falling.

All of this is to be expected, and none of it bothers him. But he _cannot_ lose face in front of Altair.

He knows they will fight again. Altair talks to him even less now than before, and is even nastier to those around him. But he still has an eagle's eye fixed to Malik's back. He is waiting, still waiting after nearly two years, for what reason only Allah knows. He is waiting for Malik to prove whatever crazy theory he's formed in his crazy head. And Malik, who _knows_ he's crazy, is determined to rise to the challenge anyway.

Why does _this_ novice matter out of all of them? Why is Malik always so sensitive to the burning feel of those eyes on his back? He has no answer save that Altair is not just another novice. He's without family, without real friends, without any sort of social grace—all he has is his assassin's talent and he of all people has decided that Malik is capable of similar skills…

It isn't an honor so much as it is the one challenge worth rising to meet. What does Malik care if random villagers called him _beggar_ or random novices complain at Kadar's lingering night terrors? But for Altair to look down on him…that rankles. Malik is so sure he can win this unspoken war. He can prove to the Son of No Family that Kadar is not a weight clamped about his ankles, pulling him down.

_You'll never be a true assassin if your loyalties are splintered…_

Malik is very tired. It is late in the afternoon, dinner hours away yet, and he stares dully at the map in front of him with only a halfhearted curiosity.

"It's a basic thing." _Dai_ Faraj nods at the map from across the room, where he's searching for yet another Book of Old Words to make Malik memorize. "It wouldn't cost much at market, not compared to some of the beauties I've hidden away here. There are maps encrusted with gold and jewels and every color of ink."

"But you're using this one," Malik says. "It's torn at the edges and the ink is faded. It's been unfurled a lot."

His instructor's eyes light up. "You've noticed? Good, good. Yes, this map I use more than I use any of its fancier brethren. A map must be detailed and practical before it can be a work of art."

"Why not make it both?"

"I've done so a few times. Perhaps you will as well."

Malik shifts, uncomfortable. "Am I to be trained in map-making? Is that why I still study with you?"

"Not enthralled by the idea, are you?" _Dai_ Faraj chuckles. "No, of course you're not. I don't know that the Master would allow it even if I asked—novices with your fighting skills are too rare. There are harder roads for the likes of you," he adds, and the compliment is weighed down by the warning attached. "Still," he says, "it's a good skill to have. Master Assassins must frequently have some sort of cover to hide behind, and cartography is a solid one. Guards won't harass innocent mapmakers much."

"I guess I could be a carto-…a map-maker after I was too old to be a Master Assassin any longer," Malik allows. "That way I could still be useful to the Order."

But _Dai_ Faraj gives him a strange look. "What chances of old age do you suppose Master Assassins have?" he murmurs. "No, Malik, a Master Assassin either becomes the Grandmaster or chokes on his blood and vomit trying."

Malik says, "But Al Mualim's been the Grandmaster for years and years. No other assassin has ever been…"

The old scholar smiles sadly. "Allah has blessed you and damned you," he says, "if you are chosen for that life."

_-i-_

It's a hot day, which isn't unusual, and the fortress is quiet, which is. The training ring in the main courtyard has been taken over by two older assassins, who whirl around each other with fantastic skill. Malik is supposed to be practicing moves of his own, but he's drifted over to the edge of the ring with Kadar and Abbas to watch the fight.

"Look at that," Kadar gasps. "He spun in _midair_. Oh, I'll never be that good!"

"All things are possible with Allah's will," Abbas says. "…Although that jump _was_ very high."

"Malik, I bet you'll learn to do that. If you do can you show me?"

Malik runs a hand through his hair. The heat has left him sweaty and ill-tempered. "Don't assume things," he mutters. "Those men are so high-ranked."

"Yeah, but still." Kadar grins. "Anyone who can fight off wolves can learn some fancy jumps."

Abbas raises an eyebrow: "When did you fight off a wolf?"

"Never," Malik groans. "I've never even seen a wolf."

"You told me you saw wolves, like, every day!" protests his brother. "I'd wait for you to come back from watching the sheep and you'd tell me about all the wolves you had to fight off. Wolves and snakes."

Malik shrugs, not able to hide a small grin of his own. "Kadar, I was ten. How would I have managed that?"

"You're only twelve now but I bet you could fight a wolf. Two wolves!"

"And get my face chewed off in the process, maybe. You're almost eight. When are you going to stop trusting me on every little thing?"

"When you're wrong about something," Kadar says simply. "You told me to trust you so I do."

Malik doesn't know what to say to that. So he says nothing and tries to focus on the fight before him. The fighters are already slowing down, gasping for the hot air, eyes blinking back the sun from sweat-drenched faces. Meanwhile Kadar gets distracted by the heat and drifts away to find some shade. Malik keeps his eyes on the battle, trying to memorize it, trying to soak the moves into his mind and into his bones. A kick to the stomach followed by a jab to the ribs…the sword as an extension of the arm, nothing more and nothing less…

Underneath a sky seared white, through the late-afternoon haze, Malik squints to catch every angle and every breath. At his side, Abbas squats down in overheated boredom and drags an aimless finger through the dirt.

"Enough of this," one of the men inside the ring finally swears. "Let the Templars kill themselves!" His partner readily agrees and lowers his sword.

"It's a good idea," says Abbas to Malik. "No sense in letting the heat make you a martyr. Let's find where Kadar went and join him."

"Maybe in a little while. I'll catch up."

"_Yaallah,_ it's too hot to stand around. Even the Master wouldn't bother."

"If Templars attacked today the Brotherhood would be in trouble."

"Don't worry about that," Abbas snickers. "Don't you know? Christians can't survive the heat. Those places they're from, Ing-Land and French and wherever, are wet and cold and miserable. If even we can't handle the heat, then they've probably died from it already."

"It's France," says Malik. "French is the language."

Abbas waves a dismissive hand. "France or French, who cares? It's a land of freezing muck either way. Probably because they're infidels who worship men instead of Allah. It says right in the Quran that Allah would withhold comforts to anyone who—"

"It's strange," says Malik, not listening at all. "_Dai _Faraj told me once that not all Christians are Templars. A lot of the ones back in their own countries don't even know we exist. And he said that some Templars, the really bad ones, aren't even Christian. They're something else and they don't believe in God, like most assassins don't."

"Heretics," says Abbas, though he looks a touch uncertain. "Well, it doesn't surprise me that their leaders strayed even from their own religions. But their followers are definitely Christian. After all, when those men attacked your village, what symbol were they wearing?"

"The cross," Malik admits. He doesn't yet know much about the Templar faith, though the _Dai_ has promised to teach him: only that they call their Prophet Jesus, not Mohammad. Supposedly they share the same god, which makes little sense, because if it was the same god how could there be all the Prophet confusion at all? Wouldn't Allah have told everyone the same information? And _then_ there are the Jews, who he's never met. He's been told they're smart but untrustworthy, that they too call the same god God, but when he asked whether they followed Jesus or Mohammad he was told _they_ believed in neither.

It was around this time that Malik decided none of it made sense and went to go find a fellow novice to punch.

"Whether they're believers or not," Abbas says now, "they're still our enemies. I guess you could have a Christian assassin-" (though he frowns as he says it) "-because one of Altair's parents was one. 'Splains a lot about him."

_Altair the Son of None_, thinks Malik. _Altair the half-breed, with a grand assassin's heritage but no past and no name._ "You know," he says aloud, "_Dai_ Faraj also said that not everyone in our own country is on our side. He says that the leaders of Jerusalem and Damascus are as corrupt and evil as the ones in France. The city guards hate us as much as they do the Templars because we make them look bad and don't obey their orders. Apparently a Muslim general tried to make a treaty with a Christian one that would hurt the common people so the Master sent an assassin to kill both of them. And the _Dai_ said—"

But Abbas protests, "Why would the Faithful attack each other?" in a scandalized tone of voice, and Malik decides to let the conversation drop. It's not worth arguing over, and Abbas would never believe it anyway. Even if Faraj, as former _Dai_ of Jerusalem, would know more than anyone what fighting in Jerusalem was like.

He waves Abbas away, gets a listless wave back in response. The courtyard is empty but for him now, and for the ever-present guards lining the walls and the doors. The heat is no match for them, and they stand as stiff and silent as ever; Malik might as well be by himself when his only companions are men made of stone. He will be like that one day, probably. Or maybe he'll go beyond that and offer up a finger…

He walks into the ring and tells himself it's just out of boredom, but his strides are filled with purpose. His robes catch the faint breezes and help temper the heat. Malik closes his eyes and imagines himself a Master Assassin, imagines his mere presence enough to send novices into awestruck spasms. He will speak with the Master as an equal, as that other man had done: he'd shown the proper respect for a warrior and had been given it back in turn.

Malik imagines being that important. Kadar will be at his side, of course, although his little brother will probably never master the grim personality—he's just so _happy_ all the time. Can there be a happy Master Assassin? Malik chuckles under his breath and balls his right hand into a fist. The punch cuts through air so thick it's almost solid, but he pretends it's a sword cutting through flesh. What will it be like to kill a man? He is no Templar, and whoever he slays will deserve it, but still. It is odd that to protect the peace there must be war.

He throws a couple more punches but stops when he hears footsteps crunching against the dirt. When he turns around Altair is in the ring with him, each hand clamped around the handle of a training sword. Without a word of explanation the older boy holds one sword out for Malik to grab.

Malik hesitates. Then he takes it.

"There's no crowd," Altair says. "No instructors. And your brother isn't here."

"What's your point?" Malik raises and lowers the sword, testing its weight.

"There aren't any distractions." Altair gives a stiff smile. "We can have a better fight."

Malik is quiet for a bit, focusing on adjusting to the sword while he sorts through words for the ones he wants to use. Then he says, "You're always watching me. And it bothered you to win our last fight. Why always me and never Rauf or Abbas?"

Altair shrugs, and in the stretching of his shoulders comes glimpses of the man he'll become: long and lean and limber, focused, a little cruel. "I'm beyond them already," he says, and Malik lets the bravado pass because, well…he _is_ beyond them. Altair's arrogance is not unfounded. "You're the only one…"

"But you won the last time," Malik points out. "Also, I don't like you."

"Who cares about that?" Altair scoffs. "Assassins aren't concerned with _like_ and _dislike_ and what others think. You lost last time but because you made careless mistakes. If you fought, really fought, without being distracted by crowds or the instructors or your stupid brother, you might have won. Or at least you might not have _lost_ so quickly."

"This is _why_ I don't like you, Brother. This is why no one likes you."

"Because I'm better than them? Because I don't try to hide it? If I don't have time to fool around like a witless child, it's hardly a flaw."

"Altair," says Malik tiredly, "you're an idiot. No one hates you because you're skilled. Otherwise they'd have to hate the Master and every higher-ranked assassin they saw. They hate you because…"

Altair smiles again. "They or you?"

"Fine," says Malik, eyes flashing. "_I_ hate you. I don't understand you! Yes, we should be loyal to the Brotherhood and try to be as strong as we can, but there are more important things than that."

"What is more important than the Brotherhood?" Now it's Altair's turn to look angry. "You say you don't understand me but you are the one who makes no sense. Nothing is greater than the Order and nothing comes before Al Mualim's orders—"

"Kadar does," Malik says quietly. "He's learning how to protect himself here and I'm grateful for that. But keeping him safe comes before any vow." Altair starts to say something, his features twisted with a scorn Malik now knows comes from sheer confusion (_son of no family, son of no name_). But Malik keeps talking, raising his voice right over the other novice's protests. "All you ever talk about is becoming a Master Assassin. Why does it matter so much? Don't you realize the kind of things a person has to do to become that high-ranked? The things he has to lose?" He hears the _Dai's_ words echoing in his ears_: a curse a blessing a curse a…_

"Master Assassins die," he cries. "You're not immortal, Altair. But you're so obsessed with becoming one. If Al Mualim makes you a guard or a cook, shouldn't you be happy to do what the Order demands? Or is it that the Master won't pay as much attention to a cook?"

Altair pushes forward in a scuffling of dust, and strikes out with his sword for a low blow directed at Malik's stomach. Quickly Malik twists himself and his arms, the tip of his sword pointing to the ground as it absorbs the brunt of the strike. The dirt settling gives him an idea, and he kicks at the ground even as he moves backwards, clouding his position somewhat by adding dust to the haze. The air clears quickly, but by then they've both moved out of each other's range.

"That was fast," says Altair, growling out the words with such force that it's tough to tell whether they're complaint or compliment disguised. "Abbas wouldn't have done that."

Malik ignores him. Last time he fought defensively, and lost on one of his few offensive moves; but that was many months ago, and he's learned how to vary his strategy since then. He's had time to study the way other assassins fight, and the way Altair fights—

Altair, who is so advanced, tends to leave parts of his body wide open when he attacks. No other novice has ever been able to exploit it, and so he's never had to correct the flaw. But Malik…Malik is patient. For now he settles back into a defensive position, fending off the other boy's strikes when they come. Altair is relentless as ever, pushing his opponent around the ring in a flurry of complicated maneuvering: the hem of his robes flow out from his body like a tail, and his pointed cowl is a bird's beak, ready to draw blood. Malik, however, is not given to similar dramatic displays and relies on the moves he most trusts, planning and preparing all the while.

He waits for the moment to come.

Altair swipes at him again, in a whirl of robes and dirt and flashing blade. The sword darts for his head but Malik blocks the swing, pushes back against it, is surprised to see Altair stumble because he so rarely does. Altair growls and grips the handle higher up, to thrust the sword lower, with more force. When that, too, is blocked, he raises it for another high swing.

Malik sees his chance. He slides around the strike and the boy, angling himself at Altair's shoulder. Altair glances over and in one smooth motion jabs to the side, not even needing for aim that's even and true. The blade scratches at Malik's chest and he winces, bites back a pained snarl and a jab of fear at what a _sharp_ blade would have done, but the skin scraped off is a nessisary sacrifice. Altair's fancy maneuvering has left him a bit off-balance…someone else would have gone for a less fancy method of attack and kept their footing, but Malik isn't fighting someone else. He knows he has a few seconds at best before Altair corrects his balance and untangles his feet.

So he does what Altair would never do. He moves back a step, in retreat.

The older boy's expression is wracked by surprise and disappointment. _Another mistake_, it scowls. He takes a step forward in chase. But because he sees victory so obviously laid out before him, he leaves himself open: leaves his body unbalanced and his feet in an awkward stance. He swings the sword again, eyes narrowed, face awash with this budding proof of his perfection.

Quickly Malik ducks down, dropping to the ground with his knees bent, letting the sword slice the air above him, so close he can feel its breeze. His shoulders roll with the sudden movement so that he is sure of his footing despite the sudden change. He has time to see Altair's eyebrows shoot up in confusion: Altair doesn't retreat and would never fall to the ground in such an ungainly, messy manner. And Altair has never had reason to correct his stances before. He is wide open and unsteady, though he hasn't realized it yet.

No doubt he realizes it when Malik, ignoring his sword, hurls himself forward and sends them both crashing to the ground. From this low position all Altair's lower body was exposed; it would have been an easy bloodbath for anyone with a dagger or hidden blade. Because Malik has neither he settles for a quick knee to the gut as he presses his weight against Altair's thrashing limbs. They've both trained in basic close-combat and hand-to-hand, of course, but if Altair's unnatural skill is with the blade, then Malik is almost as gifted with his hands. Not to mention the other boy's poor stance has cost him: he fell awkwardly and landed in a heap, unprepared for further fighting, where Malik pushed himself off from the ground in full control and could have lashed out successfully even in midair.

No other novice has ever been able to get close enough to exploit Altair's flawed positions, before. But no other novice has ever been willing to retreat from his taunts, even momentarily. Patience, and bidding time for as long as it takes, and when finally the moment comes holding the memory and the grudge it bears with all its delicious fury…Malik is very good at that.

Altair has stopped trying to break free, realizing at last that his ungainly fall has cost him needed strength. The instructors have talked at length about being in control no matter how bad the fall, because then the body will force itself into remembered positions even with broken bones and burning lungs. It will certainly hurt, but pain is nothing…

Regardless, Altair has none of that control now and acknowledges it with a twist of his lips. He juts his chin out in defiance. Malik, transferring some weight to his legs to make sure he keeps Altair pinned, brings his right wrist up and brushes it against the underside of his throat. Altair's dark eyes reflect his own thoughts back at him: _pretend a hidden blade. Pretend sparkling steel slicing wetly through cheek and tongue_.

It's quiet, without a crowd to watch. Usually in the mock-fights the assassins taunt and curse each other with not a little rage, but that's never been either boy's style. They fight silently. They fight with weapons they have not yet been given.

Malik stands up, finally, and steps back. The movement hurts, and when he looks down he sees that there's a thin line of blood spreading across the front of his tunic. Not such a scratch, then. He sits down along the edge of the ring, with his back to the fence, and rubs at his chest through the fabric. The wound burns and he winces. He wonders absently if it will scar.

When a shadow falls across him he blinks and looks up. The sun is high in the sky by now, making it hard to read Altair's expression. But there's no hiding the hand that's being offered. Malik waits for the jibe or the protest or the _winning battles through cowardice is against the creed._ He's sure something along those lines is about to come.

"That drop," says Altair. "It looked like you were falling accidently but you weren't. It threw me off."

Malik nods but doesn't say anything. Altair's hand is still outstretched.

"Teach me how to do that," he demands. "It's a useful move. And I've never seen anyone else try it. Teach me how," says this boy who never asks for help, who never admits to needing it.

Malik isn't sure how to react. _Are you tired of being lonely? Could that possibly be it?_ "Your stances need work," he says carefully. "You leave yourself too open. If you can't keep balanced you won't manage the fall."

Altair's jaw works through his evident irritation. "Then we can work on that too," he snaps, but the anger quickly subdues. "Your offenses are still sloppy," he says. "You shouldn't have to get sliced open waiting for your turn to strike. There are a couple basic moves you'd probably use well if you knew them." Malik stares at the offered hand. "Get up," Altair says, thrusting his hand out again, sounding a little shrill. "Teach me that move. It's something I should know."

After a long moment, Malik grins and reaches for the offered hand.

* * *

AN: And thus was the start of a beautiful friendship.

(I think Abbas thinks France is near the North Pole. I also think he's getting the finer details of Roman Catholicism confused, particularly when it comes to the Pope. Granted I'm not sure how one gets the Pope from the Bible either but, hell, when my own religion told me to give up bread for a while I ended up sitting in front of my computer eating Nutella with a spoon. Clearly I am no religious scholar.

The point being, this story takes place in a world where there was no internet, most people couldn't read, and calling God the wrong name at the wrong time was even more of an issue then it is today. The game assassins came across as pretty open-minded, but even they weren't living in a little bubble of peace and love. I do hope no one reading this is seriously offended…actually if people are getting offended by fanfic they need to take a good, long look at their lives.)

Thanks so much for all your comments and critiques! They mean a ton, for srs.


	10. Part One: Chapter Nine

AN: Regarding That Book, written by That Author…the one who has a good chunk of the fandom out for blood, preferably his…well, for the most part this story will ignore it. At times it will flat-out contradict it; my backstory for Malik is definitely not the current canon backstory.

I'll tell you one thing [spoiler]: Malik's ridiculous demise in _The Secret Crusade_ sure as hell ain't happening in my head-canon. I've nothing against the plot idea of him being betrayed and imprisoned (_Battle of Eagles_ was all about his getting grabbed by Robert), but don't lets pretend he'd sit around for two years starving into a helpless invalid. I mean, really, he gets thrown in jail and doesn't proceed to break out, kill twelve or so people in pure irritation and then crown himself More Awesome Than That Loser Altair Grandmaster Of The World? Out of character! I also have nothing against the idea of Altair coming to save the day, but if Malik doesn't insult him for it every step of the way someone's doing something wrong.

Another long one.

* * *

_**The Distant Smell of Smoke  
**_

Masyaf is not a large place, but its narrow streets are often clogged with travelers, villagers, merchants passing through. Through it all assassins slip through the crowds, or else jump from roof to roof to avoid the throngs, scaling the walls that border the respective layers without much effort. It's easy to climb in Masyaf: the houses lean into one another, and a person's front porch tends to be someone else's roof as well. Because the village is built against a mountain there are some steep drops, but there are also bales of hay set up in necessary spots, so that an assassin can go from fortress to first level without ever touching ground.

Malik hasn't been taught how to jump into those hay bales; there's a way of doing it that enables a fall even from many stories up. He looks forward to the day when he's shown how to execute a so-called leap of faith (faith in either the protection of the Brotherhood or the survival rate of jumping head-first into not a lot of hay). He's fourteen now, so that bit of training isn't too far away. Fourteen, he knows, is when most non-Altair novices learn more advanced techniques, and at fifteen they're sent out on their first real missions. Basic things, usually, spying on minor politicians or running errands for a _Rafik_ or bringing supplies in answer to a struggling village's requests.

But all that will come later. Malik has spent most of this day wandering about the village, looking for any small details he might have missed; his map of Masyaf is almost finished, but he doesn't want to show it to Faraj until it's exact. It's his first map, and he's the only novice studying under the cartographer so his is the only the scholar will have to critique, and since there's no hope of encrusting it with jewels he'd like it to be accurate. Plotting buildings in such a small place seemed easy enough until he realized that, for the map to be useful to the Order, every bench and every pigeon's roost would need to be marked down.

He stops at the end of a muddy footpath that curls into a small circle and ends at mountain's edge. There is a cluster of clay houses here, two of which are built up against the rock. The shadows are long at this time of day and various cooking smells waft from the glassless windows. Malik's stomach grumbles but he ignores it and squats down: there's a bench here, between two houses, which he's yet to note on his map. Why anyone would want to sit squished between houses in an ally littered with rotting food (and other, more pungent wastes besides) is beyond him, but if it exists then it's a potential point of interest for the Brotherhood.

Footsteps come up behind him, but when he glances over his shoulder it's only a village woman heading towards a house on his right. She pulls her scarf tighter around her face and gives him a wide birth when she sees his uniform, out of respect. The people of Masyaf are used to the assassins who protect them and rarely bother them at their work; it's easy to tell visitors from those who live here, because the latter don't bother to look up when a novice flies overhead en route to another rooftop. The former gawk and occasionally run away.

Malik frowns at his map. It's cluttered with symbols, and looks messy for it. _Dai _Faraj's maps are always clear and well-drawn, but this one suffers from shaky handwriting and the occasional smudged line. Cartography is difficult, and not what he'd imagined assassins did when he first joined. At fourteen he has yet to kill anyone, has yet to throw a punch that wasn't either in training or aimed at Altair. Life's been a lot of hard work, a lot of warnings and promises regarding the future, and that distant goal to revenge himself on those who stole his safe life away. But it hasn't been dangerous, or frightening. It hasn't been too hard to keep Kadar safe.

With a sigh he rolls up his map. It isn't as though he's complaining about his role in the Brotherhood—he never has to worry about finding food or water, he can read Arabic easily and French so long as he sticks to small words, and when in a bad mood he can throw rocks at Altair. Granted the rocks get thrown back but still. He's grateful for what he's been given but he doesn't feel like an assassin yet and wonders when he will. He doesn't…

Malik widens his eyes, keeping them fixed on the ground, on a new shadow creeping along the dirt. The faint scrabbling of footsteps on thatch drifts into his ears. He tenses his shoulders, his legs, steadies his breathing and waits for the footsteps to reach him. They drift closer. Malik keeps his eyes on the ground. There's a pause.

The moment breaks and he bolts, legs pumping, alive with the energy of the chase and the threat and the Order. He reaches the nearest house and grabs for the window; his fingers find purchase in cracks and he hurtles upwards, scattering nesting pigeons. His feet thud against the roof, but it's a small house and it ends quickly: below is a steep drop down to the first level of the village. There are more houses down there, more roofs and balconies, and nothing soft to cushion his fall.

Malik can hear his chaser climbing up onto the roof behind him. He shrugs, and leaps.

The wind catches hair and cowl, swoops in echo to his falling stomach. He hits the roof below hard but rolls to absorb the brunt of the impact. It hurts, and he can feel bruises blossoming along his shoulder blades, but there's no time to tend to wounds; above, on the edge of the second level, his attacker is hesitating in much the same way he just did. It gives Malik spare moments in which to increase his lead.

One house blends into the next here, and it makes for easy running—so Malik runs. His robes billow out behind him, but his leggings are tight and don't hamper his movements. From this angle Masyaf looks small and grey, flecked with color where housewives have hung clothing to dry, every building sitting at an odd angle or depending on its neighbor for stability. Ahead he sees a makeshift chimney blocking his way, but rather than goes around he grabs its edge and vaults over it with sheer momentum. His feet land solidly without his having to slow down. There's a faint thud as someone else lands hard and then the footsteps behind him, but he doesn't bother to look over his shoulder. It would only cost him crucial seconds.

Some assassins, when attacked, will run in mindless rushing until their pursuer is either exhausted or lost; Malik is too careful for that and puts a plan together even as he swerves around rotten bits of wood. It'd be embarrassing to crash through someone's ceiling, but it'd be worse to be caught. Up ahead the row of houses ends at the main road that cuts through Masyaf. It's crowded there, and that suits his planning well.

He grins with the joy of it all.

Malik reaches the edge of the roof and sees a wagon sitting in front of the last house, full of hay; it'd be an easy jump but he ignores it. Instead he throws himself off the roof, launching into the crowd. The jump's a bit messy, and the landing more of a crash than he'd like to admit. People fall back in surprise and one old lady screams. Malik pulls himself to his feet, his knees stained brown with dirt and aching, and tries to look unconcerned. A man brushes past him, muttering; the old woman scowls at him and takes a step farther away. Down the road a bit, two guards far higher ranked than he shoot him warning glances.

"What a fool," someone in the crowd complains. "He'll hurt someone, doing that."

Malik judges the situation. His pursuer is only a few steps behind and there's still a small crowd staring at him…the only thing to do is bow, which he does with much aplomb. Then he takes off running again.

But he doesn't have far to go this time. The next row of houses provides ample places to hide; he puts his back against a wall, facing away from the main road, and waits. Another thud, followed by a creaking of old boards, confirms that his follower chose to jump from roof to hay-cart, rather than risk the further wrath of the populace. Good: it makes it that much easier to track his movements.

People walk past, a bird circling overhead calls out, the voices fall together into a general murmuring, and all the crowd seems to move as one. Malik tries to focus on a single member. He sinks back, lurking behind his eyes, drawing on that eagle's vision he still isn't sure he has. The crowd is glossed over with grey, the guards down the road flicker blue, and one small figure only now creeping out from the hay-cart jolts red for just one second. Then he too looks lined in blue ink…a clearer, deeper, darker blue then anyone Malik's ever tried to scan. He turns away, wincing, because eagle's vision tends to spark nasty headaches.

But when the figure reaches him he is ready. He springs from his hiding place, catching the other one unaware, and tackles him in much the same way he once tackled Altair. They fall together, legs tangling, but Malik is in control the entire time and his final position is exactly what he'd wanted it to be. He sits on his attacker's chest and pins his shoulders to the ground. They look at each other a bit.

"Nice try," he says. "You kept up with me pretty well."

Kadar grins and groans at the same time. There are a few stray strands of hay stuck in his hair. "You knew I was there the whole time."

"Actually, you only gave yourself away at the very end. Might've surprised me if I hadn't seen your shadow."

"Oh, come on." Kadar wrinkles his nose and starts squirming until Malik slides off and he can sit up. "I'm never gonna be able to surprise you, brother," he sighs.

"You still walk too loudly," says Malik, "but you're getting better at it. I swear."

"If you say so." There's no one pinning Kadar down now but he apparently feels no need to stand; instead he flops back down and lies there in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, hair collecting dirt. "It's so nice out," he says. "The sky is so blue."

"A good day for attacking one's brother," Malik agrees. "Are you just gonna lie there all day?"

"Maybe. Why not?"

"Someone is going to trip over you."

"You should lighten up. The view's fun from down here."

"What view would that be?"

"You know." Kadar drags his shoulders against the ground in a shrug. "The buildings. The sky. The older brother. Try it, Malik, it's an interesting look at the world."

"Kadar…" Malik sighs. "You are really weird."

His brother jabs a finger in the general direction of Malik's face and waves it around. "You wouldn't say that if you were down here."

So Malik lies down in the road as well. He looks up at the sky, sees nothing particularly amazing, and says, "No, you're just really weird. I mean, look how dirty your uniform is now. They just gave you the wider belt three days ago and it's already fraying."

"Can't hear you. I think there's hay in my ears."

Sometimes Malik looks at his younger brother and forgets that four years have gone by since their village burned. Kadar at ten is far different than Kadar at six…and yet, in some ways, he hasn't changed at all. He still talks fast and often, still refuses to be anything but mellow and content. Though his nightmares are rare, on the hottest nights of wretched summer he might begin to thrash about, to shout muffled protests of _Templar_ and _Malik_ and _stop_.

But no one grumbles at being woken up by ten-year-old Kadar, and no one snickers about it the next morning—Malik has grown in the past four years as well. The Brotherhood talks of peace and control and resisting emotions, and that's all fine, but Malik also knows that the teasing only stopped after he came across Nasr mocking Kadar in the courtyard and punched him in the eye.

Still, the boys who staggered through the desert going (as Malik now knows, having checked on one of _Dai_ Faraj's maps) the wrong direction entirely, have faded away with the rising sun. Kadar is currently in the throws of a growth spurt that threatens to leave him taller than his brother in a few years; his face looks more fifteen than ten, the last bits of baby fat having been replaced with a remarkably square chin. Already he's all limbs and elbows and gawky strength. Malik himself is growing slower than he'd like, especially considering how damned _tall_ Altair is getting, but there are muscles starting to reshape his chest and arms.

The A-Sayf brothers don't talk of their parents, or what life was supposed to be for ten-year-old Malik, shepherd of sheep. They don't talk of the journey to Damascus, of Fahima, of the nights spent crouching in underbrush with empty stomachs pasted against ribs, waiting for soldiers to pass them by. But still Kadar likes to curl against his elder brother at night, and still Malik feels uneasy if he doesn't know where in Masyaf his younger sibling has gone.

"Hey, Malik," Kadar says, still stretched out on the ground. "How come you still study so much with _Dai _Faraj?"

On reflex, Malik checks to make sure his map is still safely stashed away under his belt. He looks at his brother and shrugs. "He likes me, I guess. Probably when I'm a bit older I'll get sent to another city to practice the disguise. If I don't become a Master Assassin, that is."

"Oh." Kadar frowns, a rare event. "Are you gonna get to decide either way? Or will they just make you go?"

"If Al Mualim tells me to go to Damascus, I don't think I can turn him down." Jokes Malik, "It's about time I went there."

"But if you go, can I come? Will they let me, or will I have to stay here alone?" Kadar sits up, newly anxious. His hands fiddle with a string coming loose from his tunic. "I guess it wouldn't be so bad if you were coming back but what if they tell you to _stay_?"

Malik bites his lip. Here's a worry he hadn't thought to have—but what if, indeed? "I don't think Al Mualim would split us up," he says slowly. "He'd know we'd want to stay together, obviously."

"But all the instructors say that the Brotherhood comes before everything else. Doesn't that mean family too?"

"Listen to me," says Malik. "We're going to stay together, even once we're old _Rafiks_ or once we get married or whatever. Ok? Just like I told you when you were little. Al Mualim won't separate us. No one will."

"Yeah, but…"

"Kadar. I promise. You should—"

"I should listen to my older brother, I know." Kadar bobs his head. "Even if he lies about wolves."

"Killed one yesterday," says Malik, putting his own uncertainty away for now. He won't be separated from Kadar…and why wouldn't it be just as simple as it sounds? "Right in front of the fortress, I swear."

"Uh huh." Kadar grins, wiser now at ten. "I believe you, definitely."

"You shouldn't." The voice that interrupts them is weighed down by disinterest, at least partially real; Altair still makes no secret of his disapproval of family ties. "Malik isn't a good liar," he says, standing before them on the road.

"Whoa." Kadar cranes his head around to see over his shoulder and almost falls over in the process. "Where'd you come from?"

Altair stands smirking, hands on hips, as if he'd dug his way up from the ground. There'd been no footsteps, there'd been no sight of a novice's uniform in the crowd. But then, this shouldn't be a surprise: Altair is very good at drifting through crowds unnoticed and unhindered, even in full assassin's robes.

"Not training today?" Malik stands up, dusts himself off. "Is that wise? You know you tend to forget everything you're taught."

Altair quirks one thin eyebrow. "Have you gotten shorter since yesterday?" he wonders. "Is it normal for beggars to shrink?"

"Ass."

"Fool."

"A lovely day," Kadar sighs again. "Blue sky, fluffy clouds. And it's almost time for dinner."

Both older boys are used to and ignore his dreamy interjections. Malik drifts over to stand by his rival-friend, in no real rush to get back to work on his map. "What _are_ you doing here?" he asks.

"Blending with the crowd. For practice."

"You know, in the cities you'd have to blend in with religious scholars. Even monks if they send you to Acre."

"So?"

"So how are _you_ going to blend in with a bunch of priests?"

"I don't have to understand their stupid mythology to look the part," scoffs Altair. "The hardest part about blending is hiding your sword and I'm good at that."

"If you say so."

"What? As if it wouldn't be just as hard for you?"

"At least I know when to praise the crescent and when the cross."

"Superstition," Altair insists. "It's all pointless unless it helps you make a kill."

"Says the boy," Malik observes, "who's never killed anything."

"I've—"

"You haven't even helped slaughter a sheep?" asks Kadar in surprise. "I thought everyone did that."

"Is there a reason _you're_ still here?"

"He's here because he wants to be here," says Malik, mildly enough.

"Well, _anyway_." Altair purses his lips. "Practice crowdwalking with me after we eat. You could use the help."

"Sure," agrees Malik, "as long as afterwards you learn how to—"

A great commotion comes from the first level of the village just then, and all three boys turn to look below. At the gates to the entrance the beleaguered guards are trying to hold back a pushing mass of curious villagers. Masyaf's people are no richer than those of the surrounding villages, but in their clean clothing they look a damn sight better than the ten or so strange men keeping their distance behind the guards. Those men are dressed in little better than tattered rags.

They're all bearded though, except for a couple who don't look old enough to have beards, and they all hold themselves with that assured bearing that suggests tribal elders. The leaders of whatever place they've come from, then. Only…

Malik, wondering why half of Al Masyaf would gather to stare at the local gentry, looks past them and sees, huddled past the open gates a ways, at least twenty people. Not to mention the sense of far more that he can't see. All strangers, all obviously weary and disheveled even from a distance. With the exception of a bleating goat or two, none of the newcomers seems to have anything in the way of possessions: just what's on their backs.

He's too far away to see anyone's eyes, but Malik recognizes that fear-stench hovering over the crowd. He hears it in the wailing of babies and the haggard faces of the men. Half a village, if not more, clustered and begging for entry into the protected haven of Masyaf.

_Templars_. Malik and Kadar glance at each other. Kadar shifts closer to his brother, dropping his gaze.

"Come on," says Altair to Malik. "They'll need us." He ignores Kadar, but the younger boy follows anyway as they stride back to the main road. The crowds are only getting larger, especially as they get closer, but nevertheless it's easy going: just as assassins can be invisible, they can also be seen when they want to be. The villagers part for the trio, turning to them for this as they turn to their Order for so much else.

One of the tribal elders is deep in discussion with one of the guards when they reach the gates. He has the slightest bit of an accent, and his eyes are an odd hazel; Malik can't help but be surprised at how far these people must have traveled. While Altair goes to insert himself into the conversation Malik peers outside the gates at the newcomers, half curious and half concerned.

It's worse than he'd thought. There must be fifty people out there!

A couple of thin goats bleat ceaselessly. One man, laden with—of all things—a bunch of iron cooking pots, clangs whenever he shifts. Otherwise the people are silent. Too silent, for a group of that size. The older men, mostly bearded and wearing prayer caps, stand with their families and scuff fraying sandals against the hard-packed ground. The younger men are gathered in groups, muttering, eyes suspicious and defensive in a manner Malik recognizes. The only other large gatherings Masyaf ever sees are the merchant caravans cutting across from North Africa, but these men are clearly no merchants: their arms are empty, their faces angry. Those caravans rarely have women attached, unless a leader brings his wives; supposedly some of them carry slave-girls (and boys), but Al Mualim never allows that sort of convoy anywhere near the village gates. In this group, however, are plenty of women, cowering in black _abayyas _and veils, clutching at too-quiet babies and children who sway where they stand. Malik thinks of Fahima's sickly infant, for the first time in years. There are a lot of young women in the crowd without any children to hold.

He glances to the side and sees that Kadar has crept up behind him. The younger boy stares at the crowd with round eyes, for once with nothing cheerful to say. An old woman in the crowd, one of the few without her face hidden, sees them looking and stares back, beyond modesty or shame. Malik wonders if she's expecting rocks.

"Malik." Altair gestures impatiently at him, and he tears his eyes away. "Come over here, would you?"

The guard he has cornered is higher-ranked but deferential around the Master's star pupil. The village elder has backed away a few steps and stands watching him warily.

"They're refugees," Altair tells him. "From a village on the other side of the river."

"Far past," adds the guard. "Closer to Acre than here. A large one cut in half by water…"

"So when the Templars attacked from one side, the other side had a chance to escape." Altair's lip curls slightly, as it always does when speaking of retreat. He can't help but be disdainful, and probably doesn't even notice when he is. "But half the villagers were lost."

"He says it was chaos," the guard says. "He says the river was so clogged with bodies you could walk across using them as a raft. The survivors ended up in the middle of the godforsaken desert. They fled to a place nearby but the rubble was still burning when they arrived."

"It must've been slow going," says Malik. "All those women and kids."

"There's not so many kids," says Kadar.

Altair tosses his head. "Of course there aren't that many by _now_," he says, but when Malik glares at him he has the good sense to change the subject. "They're asking for protection. They want to stay here."

"Al Masyaf isn't big enough for all of them," the guard says uneasily. "I told them that the hills are filled with villages they could settle into. Some of them have more of us than of regular people, they're just as safe, but they don't want to leave."

"They want the gates between them and the desert," says Malik, who understands what it feels like to know there are walls between home and hell. Walls that evil, without warning, cannot breach.

"Al Mualim must protect us!" one of the old men cries suddenly. "The assassins must protect us!"

"I'll tell the Master," Altair says to Malik. "You'd better find some more guards."

Malik nods and looks over at his brother. "Kadar," he starts to say, "stay here until…" but his voice trails off when he sees Kadar isn't listening. The younger novice is still looking at the newcomers with huge eyes, and Allah only knows what he's really seeing past Al Masyaf's gates.

_-i-_

Room is found for the refugees, normalcy is restored…and from all across the wide desert world comes the wisdom incarnate of the Order and its teachings. _Rafiks_ from the great cities, spies from far-off kingdoms, informers with their accents turned by years in the enemy's camps. Men in positions so secretive and so obscure that Malik cannot recognize the patterns of their robes. Those who hold the ears of tribal leaders, and who arrive with brigands of mercenaries all their own: and those who hunt the tribal leaders, suspicious and jumpy, wary around both strangers and unfamiliar food. There are a few pale-skins for Altair to blend with, finally. A few with the slanted eyes of Orientals. A spare few with looks so strange there seems to be no country from which they could be called.

Because the Templars are moving. While Malik has adjusted to the Brotherhood, to life closed behind walls and ranking, the enemy has wrest control of Acre from the Saracens, the Arab army they've been fighting off-and-on for years. The irreligious Brotherhood is not concerned with country-loyalties, or with kings, and the Acre _Rafik_ has only gained more spies in the switching, but the people are suffering more and more. The Christians…not all the Christians, but the select few that paint red crosses on their banners and call themselves the _Knights Templar_…these men are searching for something. No one seems to know quite what.

It doesn't matter what. What matters is that in their searching they have plundered villages, destroyed homes, dragged the war into places that had little to do with the Crusades before. They do not limit their bile, their screams of _heretic_ and _blasphemer_, to the Saracen soldiers—Malik has heard of their burning churches. The first group of refugees to arrive pleading at the gates of Masyaf is not the last, and the bubble of training bursts as the countryside erupts with fresh blood.

The novices talk excitedly of what this means for them, what missions they can hope for, what great deeds they can accomplish now. But Malik has no time for such heroics; he is still training hard, day after day. At night he stays awake to consol Kadar, whose nightmares have begun anew since that first bunch of desperate strangers appeared.

("Malik," he groans sleepily one night. "They got you an' I couldn't help. So much smoke…it hurt to breathe and I couldn't _find_ you."

"Don't worry," says Malik, blinking back his own tiredness. "It's not hard to find me. I'm right here.")

Altair, meanwhile, is delighted.

It starts when the _Rafik _from Alexandria, younger than most and still strong with a sword, challenges some of the novices to a fight. He puts on a great show of being feeble and outmanned before thoroughly beating six novices in a row; it's when he faces the seventh novice that his struggle becomes less of an act and concentration scrawls across his brow. He does beat that seventh novice, but it takes a while, and by fight's end there are half a dozen _Rafiks_ and spies and instructors watching in admiration.

And Al Mualim. He watches quietly, hands tucked inside his wide sleeves, surrounded by approving assassins of all types. At the end of the fight, when the Alexandria _Rafik_ is panting and Altair is licking flecks of blood from his lips, the Master nods. "Yes," he says to an informer's query, "he's one of mine. One of the very best, since he was little. There's work I have in mind for him."

Altair hears this, of course, because Altair is good at hearing things not necessarily meant for him. He hears his beloved master's praise and he beams.

Malik is the only one who doesn't congratulate him on his might-as-well-be victory. He takes it upon himself to point out various flaws in the still-sloppy footwork, if only because no one else does. It's a bit sickening, really, all this fawning and what it's doing to an arrogant somebody's arrogant head. So he makes sure to critique just about everything that can be critiqued, and when Altair takes a swing at him he ducks it with a grin.

Still, Malik's attempts at keeping Altair somewhat grounded are overwhelmed when compared with a great master's compliments. And when Al Mualim calls all those masters together for the first time, he has Altair stand at his side. Ostensibly the boy is there to fetch food and drink for the men as needed, but the true honor in the request is obvious. To be asked to stand by the Grandmaster, to be asked to help him in any way! The rest of the novices have not been invited to the meeting, and are forced to cram themselves on ledges and in trees in hopes of overhearing even the slightest bit. When the meeting ends Altair comes swaggering back, full of information he "mustn't tell, so don't bother asking, because only certain people are trusted enough for this information and since _you_ weren't invited…"

Rauf smiles and agrees that Altair has been given a great honor. Abbas is sourer than ever, jealousy pouring from his sullen mouth. He takes to reciting various worship-Allah-and-no-man sermons from the Quran, to which no one pays any attention. Kadar forms a small band of novices his own age and leads it after Altair, begging for crumbs of information, utterly enthralled whenever he deigns acknowledge their existence.

"He isn't a god or a Grandmaster," protests Malik. "He's just a jerk who throws good punches."

"But the Master let him stay for the discussion! And I heard from Nasr who heard from—I'm not sure who but he heard it from someone, that he's gonna get promoted to journeyman soon. He's not even near the right age for that, but he's so good that he's gonna get promoted anyway. And he got to sit with all those _people_…!"

"He's a jerk. Not to mention he was just there to fetch them water. I thought real assassins weren't waiters or cooks."

Kadar is scandalized. "You're his best friend. You should be happy for him too."

But Malik waves that away. "I'm not about to worship Altair Ibn La'Ahad," he says. "Especially if I'm his best friend. That's the last thing he actually wants."

"I don't understand," Kadar complains. "I wish you'd tell me what you're talking about."

But how can Malik begin to explain? How can he reason away the frequent midnight sparring sessions, brutal and deadly serious? How can he admit the constant, controlling awareness he has towards Altair, and that Altair has towards him? Always knowing where the other is, and when, and why…how can he explain the crackling tension that sparks between them, connects them, in friendship or hate?

("Coward," hisses Altair. "Coward, your loyalties split."

"Son of no family," answers Malik, "and no name, and no home."

The punches are thrown with real violence…they can read each other's movements in the furious strain of the fight…each muscle's tensing is a sign that no one else would know.

Parry here, strike there, jump and shuffle and scratch. Close—so close—bodies bruised and aching and tense. And afterwards, collapsed in the courtyard under the stars, chests heaving and faces drenched with sweat, arms slung about each other's shoulders in the solidarity all comrades in arms must share: admitting things that no one else would want to hear.

"When we're Master Assassins," says Altair, "we'll kick the Templars back to Europe. I don't think most of the Brotherhood is strong enough to do that. If…when I'm in charge we'll kill every Templar we see." Malik agrees, with more bloodlust than he'd known he had, and Altair continues: "No one else in this fortress is worth anything. Just us. And when we're Masters the whole Order will look up to us alone."

When we. When we.)

_-i-_

But while most of the Order is returning to Al Masyaf, one member is going away.

A week after the chaos begins, Malik makes his way through a crowded fortress, slipping past groups of men speaking in languages he doesn't know about subjects he's too low-rank to understand. It was a great surprise to come across the first assassin whose mother tongue was French, but since then Malik has overheard conversations in everything from English to Hindi. Strange things feel less strange the fifth time around.

He's too distracted to care much about languages. The rumors of Altair's being promoted to journeyman have sent something not quite resentment soaring through his system. Journeymen are sent out on real missions, important missions: they kill Templars. And isn't that what Malik promised Kadar he'd do, years ago? The enemy is still out there, still making orphans of unsuspecting shepherds and their siblings. How much longer will Malik have to wait before he's deemed ready to stop them?

He sidesteps around a _Rafik_ being followed by a small herd of novices, then ducks down a narrow hallway he knows very well. At the end of the hallway he climbs a small staircase, only three steps, and keeps walking down the hall it opens into until he reaches a door no different from any of the others he's passed. Malik knocks once, waits, and then pushes it open. The clutter that waits for him inside is familiar, and reassuring.

But nothing else about the room is reassuring in the least.

The usual piles of books have been scattered about the room, and the table is no longer crowded with maps. _Dai_ Faraj is too busy packing a satchel to notice Malik's presence, at first; he frowns in concentration, tugging absently at his beard with one hand.

"_Dai?"_ says Malik, a bit uncertainly. He fumbles for his own, less-than-stellar map, as today is its day to be presented, but the old scholar barely glances in his direction as he continues to pack.

"Ah, Malik. It's good that you've—now where is that quill?—it's good that you've come. I was about to send a guard to go find you."

"Am I late? I apologize, _Dai_, I thought we were supposed to meet…"

"No, no, you aren't late." Faraj shakes his head. "You're early, actually. It's I who will have to be late. I'm afraid our sessions will have to be put on hold for a while. I've been sent…well. I've been sent elsewhere by Master Al Mualim."

"You're going on a mission?" Malik glances around the room again. It isn't unheard of for instructors to be sent out with the rest, but _Dai_ Faraj? How can he be leaving? He's always been right here.

"A mission, yes." Faraj nods, and it's then that Malik notices the scholar has cast off his dark robes of office. He wears only the white uniform now, though his sleeves and tunic have been decorated as befits his rank. His red sash is wide with flowing silk, and the elegant hilts of several small daggers stick out from beneath the belt.

"You know that I was the leader of the Jerusalem bureau before coming here. One of the duties of any bureau leader is making contacts, and I may mention that doing so is an art in of itself. It appears that Al Mualim has need for those contacts again…forgive me, Malik, if I must be vague. Someone I once knew is now keeping company with someone the Brotherhood dislikes. For a while this was tolerated, but he's always been a foolhardy man and we believe he's begun to spread secrets."

Malik asks, "Does that mean you're going to kill them? Kill both of them?"

"If it comes to that," and the ease with which Faraj says this is unnerving at best. "I think it won't. My contact is a nobleman, and his death will be both hard to arrange and hard to keep quiet. Besides, I don't much like killing men for the company they keep—though killing them for the stories they spread is much a different matter."

"What if it doesn't come to that? Will you let him go?"

"He isn't a Templar, Malik," says the _Dai_ with a slight smile. "A sympathizer, perhaps, but in my heart I suspect he's not much more than a careless oaf, eager to ingrain himself to those in control. Careless men should be given a chance to redeem themselves before they die."

"So you'll warn him. And if he doesn't listen…"

Faraj says simply, "Then I shall do what assassins must."

Malik nods and is quiet, absorbing it all in. Though he still harbors no real desire to be a mapmaker, the cartographer's messy little room has been a comfort over the years. A steadying presence, and _Dai_ Faraj within it to smooth away any troubles or fears. But now he will be gone, and for a long time, too…Jerusalem is very far away.

"It isn't forever," laughs the scholar when he sees Malik's crestfallen face. "I'm an old man with no desire to dawdle. Besides, no doubt I'll be needed here the minute I leave, what with everything else that's happened. You should be looking at this as a benefit: it gives you more time to work on your map."

Malik flushes and squirms; the _Dai_ gives him a knowing glance, eyes twinkling. "It's ok," he says. "Allah knows _I_ wouldn't want to be drawing maps when I could be listening in on the Master's meetings, either. Take this extra time to, ah…redo anything that isn't right. As for myself, I'm too old to enjoy so much travel. I'll take a fast horse to Jerusalem, and a faster horse back in a few months."

He gestures around the room, at all the books and maps and scrolls. "This is as much yours as mine," he says, "so continue to come here to study whenever you'd like. Those cartography skills have to be kept fresh, yes?"

Malik glances at the nearest pile. The book on top has a leather cover, reddish with golden letters; the pages are thin and uneven. "There's too much in here," he says. "I won't be able to figure out what's worth reading on my own."

"Start with the Latin," Faraj says, chuckling. "You ought to be practicing that more than I think you have been."

"Yes, _Dai,"_ Malik says, flushing again.

"Well, Malik, I must get back to work. Even basic missions take more preparation than you could imagine, but you'll find that out for yourself one day." He offers Malik one last smile. "I'll send for you," he says, "when I return to Masyaf."

His attention turns back to his packing, and takes Malik's interest along with it. Curious, the novice presses in against the table. What, exactly, does an assassin take with him on a mission? Surely for assassinations it would be crucial to pack light, but this mission will require some theatrics and disguise. He watches as the scholar fits books in among the swords.

Footsteps, and someone clearing their throat: _Dai _Faraj and Malik both turn to see Abbas lingering in the doorway. "Safety and peace," he says, and bows.

"And for you as well." Faraj smiles at Abbas, who he likely hasn't seen since the basic lessons were abandoned two years ago. "Did you need something?"

"Malik. The Master has sent for Malik. Am I interrupting?"

"Even if you were, the Master shouldn't be kept waiting." The _Dai_ waves a hand. "Go on, then. I'll see you in a few months, Malik A-Sayf." He warns, though still with his eyes crinkled in good humor, "If you haven't finished your map by then I'll have you memorizing Latin phrases for a year."

"Yes, _Dai_," says Malik, and also bows. Though he is closer to the old man than to some of his fellow novices, he never forgets to be respectful. Friendships and attachments mean nothing: as the oft-repeated story reminds, a favorite assassin of Al Mualim's was nevertheless banished for disobeying orders. No one is quite sure _who_ that assassin is or was, but the point remains a valid one.

"Safety and peace," says Faraj to them both, though he only looks at Malik. The two novices hurry off, letting the door bang shut behind them as they go.

_-i-_

"What does the Master want with me?" asks Malik as they stride down the hall.

"I don't know. One of his bodyguards told me to get you, is all. _I'm_ not Altair, who has privileges and information thrown at his feet."

"Oh, come on," Malik says lightly. He gets along well enough with Abbas, mostly because he puts little importance on the boy's constant grousing. Some people, and he suspects Abbas is one of them, like to complain more than they do act. "Altair is a good fighter and he gets rewarded because of it. It's not as if he doesn't work hard. He gave that _Rafik_ a black eye, did you see?"

"You sound like your brother, fawning over him."

"I'm not fawning. He's my friend and I can admit he's a strong fighter."

"So what? You're just as good as he is, and _you're_ not a terrible excuse for a human being—though Allah alone may judge in the end," he mutters quickly.

Malik turns a thoughtful eye on him. "I don't know if I'm as good as Altair. He's so fast, so…confident. Even when he should be tripping over his own feet, he doesn't…like he makes the rules work differently for him than for others. Besides that he keeps things exciting and occasionally he can even manage fun. I can stand him more than other people here. Definitely more than Nasr. If you ignore his bragging he'll usually stop and remember to act human. Nasr's mean, and he _likes_ being mean. Altair is a jerk, but I don't think he's mean."

"Al Mualim should dote on him less and you more," insists Abbas. They've rounded a corner and the stone hallway is more crowded now, so he lowers his voice as he says, "Does the Master think making everyone jealous of someone so arrogant is a good thing?"

"I don't know." Malik shifts, uncomfortable now. He doesn't much like second-guessing Al Mualim…and he doesn't much like Abbas's glowering discontent.

"It's as you said. He isn't a god, he's a novice assassin. A _half-breed_ novice assassin. Blending with crowds well won't dilute the infidel blood in his veins."

"It doesn't matter what he's made from. He's still a good fighter. It says in the Quran that blood doesn't matter, you know."

"_Tabaan,_ I know that," Abbas snaps. '"Had Allah willed He could have made you one people. But He hath made you as you are, so vie one with another in good works.' Of course I know that."

"Of course."

"Let him lead you around by the nose, then." Abbas glares at Malik, a strange passion in his eyes. "And when he finally angers the wrong person he'll use you to block the blow."

"We're assassins," Malik says in exasperation. "Altair can try to do whatever he'd like to me—I can always punch him in the face if he gets on my nerves."

They come out into the main courtyard, clogged with its usual mix of guards, novices, and villagers from Masyaf. Off in a corner, thick in the shadows of the fortress, Altair is standing with a couple of informers; despite his lesser rank he appears to be the one doing all the lecturing. "…will never work _that_ way," he's saying as they pass by. "You might as well give the Templar generals your name and address, too."

"I've been an assassin longer than you, _boy_," one of the informers growls. "I would think I would know how to—"

Altair flashes a predatory smile. "Yes," he says, "you would think."

Sadly Malik doesn't get to witness whatever violent outburst is sure to follow; it's been too long since he's seen Altair get a rock thrown at his head. Of course, whatever plan the boy was disparaging probably _was_ a bad one…but his being better at informing than actual informers is no surprise at all, and nothing Malik needs to see.

Abbas stops at the entrance to the main hall. The guards there stare through them, an eerie ability Malik has never gotten used to. "The Master's in his study," says Abbas. "With some _Rafiks._"

"Oh. I wonder what he wants me to do."

"Don't you realize? He's giving you the same honor he gave to Altair, he knows you're good enough to be worthy of it. But even so he doesn't treat you like some beloved son…"

"I'll see you later," Malik interrupts. The argument is not one he needs to repeat so soon. "At lunch."

But Abbas sniffs and turns away. "_I_ won't be there," he says. "Yesterday _was_ the first night of Ramadan, you know."

Malik, who wasn't old enough to fast before he turned ten and wasn't naïve enough to play at hunger after he joined the Order, rolls his eyes and slips inside, past the guards. He's been invited inside, he's certainly doing nothing wrong, and yet still he feels a nervous chill down his spine when one of the men follows him in with a heavy gaze, beyond seeing or pity or much humanity at all.

Al Mualim is on the second floor as always, nestled in an alcove just past his library. With him are several greybeards, _Rafiks_ and scholars all. They are seated on cushions (with the exception of the Master, who has a chair) and are pouring over various maps that have been furled out against the stone. Malik catches a glimpse of Jerusalem—he recognizes the particular lines of that city's streets after so much time with _Dai_ Faraj—as he approaches them. Long before anyone's noticed his presence he's lowered himself into a bow. Malik doesn't really like having to bow before anyone, but he knows stronger men than him have been punished for less.

Al Mualim sees him, finally, and smiles. It isn't the warm one he saves for Altair, there isn't anything fatherly in it, but it's nice to get all the same. "Malik A-Sayf," he says. "One of the Brotherhood's most talented novices."

One of the other men squints nearsightedly, his face crumpling into a muddle of wrinkles and old scars. "A-Sayf? I knew another assassin with that name once, an older man in Damascus. Any relation?"

Al Mualim says, "Malik and his brother came here from the desert," and Malik is mildly surprised that the Master remembers the origins of two novices out of so many. "With his skills he has proven the benefits of hospitality ten-fold."

Malik bows again. "Safety and peace, Master," he says. "And to you, _Rafik…_" He hesitates, not knowing any names. "You've sent for me?"

The Master nods and turns his eyes back towards the maps. "The kitchens are sending us up tea and a proper meal," he says, "but until then we are still thirsty. There is a pitcher of ice water on my desk. Fetch it for us, please."

Malik nods. A part of him wants to point out that it made no sense for them to call him all the way over here just to pick up a pitcher, that while they waited for him to arrive they could have gotten it themselves a hundred times over. But Malik is no fool: the eyes of the _Rafiks_ are all upon him now, and he knows this is another test. Only Al Mualim sees no reason to watch his reaction, choosing instead to smile down at his maps. He is the leader of the Order, the prophet-king of men who would run his errands through the night or his sword through the stomach, if given the order. He has control of the assassins, and he is made more powerful for knowing it.

Malik goes to get the water.

The pitcher is where the Master said it would be, sitting on the corner of the old desk. It's made out of clay and heavy, forcing Malik to use both hands to carry it the short distance back to where Al Mualim sits. He practices walking the few steps as quietly as possible, wanting to be as much like a Master Assassin as he can be. He's seen the way those men walk: like spirits, like demons, like fragments of dreamstuff cutting through the living world.

"…arrogant, that boy," he hears as he approaches. "He intrudes on the conversations of those much older than he, and he does not listen to their warnings." Malik slows his pace. The speaker, a balding man with patches of hair on his chin, is frowning disapprovingly at the rest.

The man sitting next to him agrees. "A boy of fifteen has no business interrogating others. Nor does he have any right for giving lectures. Be careful with him."

"Send him out on a mission, if he is so eager," suggests a third. "Let him learn what it is to fail." Meanwhile Malik, who can't stall any longer, kneels at the edge of their circle to lower the water pitcher. The _Rafiks_ ignore him, which is a good thing, because it makes it so much easier to listen in.

"There is no time for mistakes," says the balding man. "Master, we must protect the people, before they lose faith."

"We assassins are no army," says he who has at his absolute command hundreds of well-trained men with a penchant for blood. "We cannot force the Crusaders and the Saracens to make peace."

"But we are able to control their leaders if not their rank-and-file. Both Richard and Saladin fear the old man of the mountain, this you _know_. The Brotherhood fights for peace and justice, does it not?"

"Through war, if necessary." Al Mualim speaks as if the contradiction isn't there. "We do what we must to rid the land of the corrupt and cruel. I am not convinced that either Richard or Saladin is cruel."

"Their armies are. The people are suffering!"

"And we will do what we can to prevent this. Still, I say that we must tread cautiously in this matter. The Templar Order is the true threat. They are the ones seeping into the cities to spark riots and enslave the populace. They are the ones destroying what villages they find. Even if the Crusaders leave, they will stay behind."

"Why would they do that? If they lose control of the Holy Land they have no reason to remain."

"This treachery," the Master murmurs, "is more than you know. Their lust for control won't be satisfied by the Holy Land—should they get the chance they shall conquer all the world. And as things are now…"

There's a meaningful trailing of words. Malik, who has been kneeling by the pitcher in some fascination, has the presence of mind to leap to his feet. The faces staring at him now are not particularly amused.

"Safety and peace," he says hastily. Then, with no concern for how a Master Assassin might move, he turns tail and runs.

_-i-_

Because the day is warm and breezy, Malik keeps running even once he's left the main hall. He lets his feet choose the road, his mind content to mull over the Master's meeting in a disconnected sort of way. He is only a novice assassin, and he feels no real threat at all this talk of looming war: only vague excitement, ready for the next part of his life to begin. His boots carve half-moon intents in the sandy earth as he darts past the training ring, past a crowd of civilians gathered at one end, past an irate instructor yelling, "Don't _tell_ me how to use a hidden blade when you've never even-!" at a disdainful Altair.

Malik heads not for the gates but for a long ladder against the far wall. He climbs quickly, scaling one of the fortress's outer walls. Novices don't come up this way much, as the area must be kept clear for the archers on guard, but seeing as how there's no actual rule _against_ it…

The ladder leads to a wide, round room. It's empty but for narrow windows, plenty of flags, and guards who frown at his intrusion. There's also another ladder, propped against a wall: Malik has a sudden need for height, for the sky wide and unscarred by towers, so he climbs this second ladder as well. Up here, along the platform that is the top of the watchtower, are more grimfaced sentries and supplies stacked in heaps. There are also several wooden platforms, jutting out from the round building; each is watched over by its own man, and each is suspended miles above the earth. This side of the fortress faces the river, and to fall from one of those platforms would be to smash against rocks, torn to shreds by the rough water's pull.

But jumping is not falling. There's a little slab of land directly below the sheer side of the watchtower, and well-maintained piles of hay as well. Falling from this height is death, and not one even an assassin could avoid, but jumping with the back first arched to ensure a sharp decline and then straightened to ensure a speedy drop—jumping is very survivable indeed.

Malik won't attempt his first leap of faith from such a challenging distance, of course; novices are taught how to jump from the roofs of buildings and minor cliffs, and still the infirmary is kept busy setting broken legs and binding crushed wrists. There's no real reason any novice would come to this watchtower, and Malik knows the guards are watching him carefully. He also knows—because this isn't the first time he's had a need for distance, for the wide world to keep where it can't reach him to drag him down—that they won't leave their posts to stop him unless he were to foolishly attack. They won't care if he climbs out on one of the wooden beams and sits with his feet dangling into the air. If he falls, he dies, and rids the Brotherhood of a clumsy member besides.

It's easy to forget those guards aren't statues, and today Malik doesn't try. He picks his usual spot, on the beam farthest down from the ladder, and climbs to the very edge. The height doesn't bother him; the far reach of the sun sparkling on the water doesn't make him queasy. The wind is rough, tearing at his hair, making it quite impossible to wear the cowl even if he'd wanted it on for once. It's also significantly cooler, and his eyes tear from the shock. He draws his knees to his chest, steadies himself, and looks out upon the world.

From here it looks so empty.

From here, and from this angle, there is no fortress and no civilian crowd and no Master with his beguiling charms. No tests. No mysteries. No muttered conversations, half-heard in strange whispers and snatches of air. He can see the mountain ranges that surround Masyaf, and the stream-turned-river-turned-sea, but he can't see the desert. He can't see the Templars or their burning handiwork. He can't see his fellow assassins, either. Not his brother and not Altair.

It's easier to think up here, despite the cold and the height and the sentinels. For all the great fortress's size, for all that it seems to swallow miles in its hallways alone, it can feel too close inside for clear thought sometimes. Too many eyes. Too many secrets. Too many men with eagle's talons roosting in dark hallways, breathing ancient dust. Especially when the Master's near. So hard to think straight when in the library, in that incense-choked room, watching Al Mualim ooze mesmeric charm. Up here, at least, Malik can feel properly alone.

He shifts so that his feet are hanging over the edge and tilts his head back. It's nice to be this far above the earth, and it's just as nice to know there's some stable ground to return to. In fact he thinks he might—

Footsteps on the plank behind him. He turns his head to look and frowns.

Altair moves past him with his arms held out, away from his body. His robes billow in the wind, but he walks with a surefooted grace, seemingly without any fear of the height. His boots scuff against the wood until he's standing next to Malik, though there's little enough room: he stops so close to the edge one more step would kill him, but still he keeps his arms out and his face tilted up towards the sun. Not for balance, because looking up can only make things dizzier. Not for balance, but for pride.

Malik watches the wind catch his cowl and pull it away. Altair's hair is longish and matted from the weight of the fabric, caught in tufts against his neck. His eyes dart about restlessly without shadows to hide in. In the thin light of the day their usual brown color looks flecked with gold.

"Why are you here?" Malik asks.

"I saw you climbing the ladder. About to jump?"

"Of course not. Don't be stupid." Malik brings one knee up and rests his arms against it. "You're going to fall off."

"I won't." And he won't—that's the annoying thing. They both know he's in perfect control so why the need to gloat? The difference between them, maybe: Altair shows off his accomplishments where the practical Malik bides his time. (But Malik was the first one to climb.)

Finally Altair lets his arms drop to his sides. "Why do you come up here? I've seen you climbing that ladder before."

"It's quiet," says Malik. "I can see more from up here."

"See what? How small you are?" But it isn't an insult; Altair looks surprisingly serious. Afraid of heights after all? Or maybe afraid of how little _reach_ he has, for all that he can swing a sword. "You should stay where you have the most power."

"I _know_. Unlike you I pay attention to more than just who's fighting who in the training ring. There's a lot of gossip, you know?"

"How is aimless chatter important?"

"When I come up here it's easier to figure that out."

"And what gossip are you figuring out today?" Altair asks, curling his lower lip into that sneer Malik now knows means more than just disdain. "There's always someone talking behind my back, but I don't see the need to care."

Malik looks down at the water rushing beneath their feet. Would it hurt to fall, he wonders, if the jump went wrong and the bit of land was missed? Would the water be a solid surface to crash against? Or would it be a gentle grasp, sucking you down?

Altair says, "Assassins shouldn't gossip like women. They shouldn't worry what others might think."

"Then I guess I'm no assassin." Quietly Malik says, "Sometimes I don't feel like I'm really part of the Brotherhood. I haven't killed anyone. I don't understand half of what the Master says. All these secrets…"

"You're the best novice here, after me," and as before there was no insult, here there's less compliment than cool fact. "They'll make you a journeyman soon. Of course you're part of the Order."

"The Order makes simple things complicated."

"The Order," corrects Altair with a touch of ice, "believes in strategy. Al Mualim believes in strategy."

"But if towns are being attacked, why aren't we protecting the innocent like it says to do in the Creed? If people are being hurt—"

"By _people_, you mean Kadar," Altair says. "Other little brothers you want to save."

"Not just brothers, whole families. Why should people suffer when we could help them?"

"We _are_ helping them."

"Not enough. Al Mualim says we're not an army but we could be! We could fight in the open and still honor the Creed. He acts like losing people is just collateral damage. Like our war is bigger than that."

"It's always _been_ bigger. You've known that from the start! It's more than just keeping the Crusaders in Europe or getting rid of the corrupt in Jerusalem—"

"Then what is it?" Malik asks in the barest of whispers. "Then what is it Al Mualim wants us to do?"

Altair doesn't answer right away. He glances at Malik, turns away, stares at a distant bird, hovering and backlit by the sun. Then he clenches his fists.

"Malik," says Altair, "shut up."

"What? Why should I—"

"Because you're sitting there acting like some wise _Dai_ who knows everything. Shut up and stop being so proud."

"Are _you_ calling me arrogant? Altair, you are the biggest piece of…"

"Why do you think you can question the Master so easily? He took you in out of the desert, when you were nothing but dirt and bones, when you were so small and pathetic you couldn't walk straight. He could have let you starve! Put your gratitude in him if not your faith."

"Everything is permitted, right? And nothing is true. _Dai_ Faraj says I should question—"

"I don't care about some old mapmaker mumbling into his beard. I don't care about anything but what the Order says. That's how it _should_ be! Instead you have to wonder about everything, you have to keep yourself apart like it doesn't all apply to you. When you swore to uphold the Creed you swore to uphold all of it, not to pick and choose."

"I never do that. I never pick and choose."

Altair pulls his voice into a high mimic. "_Oh_," he simpers, "oh, I don't know about _that_. That doesn't really work for me. I have to put my brother first, I have to check on Kadar, I have to keep him safe. My precious little brother who cries in his sleep every fucking night. For once in your life stop worrying about Kadar! Worry about yourself. You could be…don't you realize how good you could be? How good we'll both be. That's what's important. The two of us in control, because…"

"Because what?" snaps Malik. "If you're going to bellow at least make some sense. And while you're at it, stop whining about my brother like he's the reason you're miserable all the time. It isn't Kadar's fault your parents…"

"_Master Al Mualim felt there was no need to encourage family ties…he gave him no name and no past…"_

Altair's voice is soft and dangerous. "What about my parents?" he asks, hissing his words like a snake.

Malik hesitates. "…I know Al Mualim is wrong about at least one thing," he says finally. "He shouldn't treat you the way he does. Ignoring you one day, putting the entire Brotherhood on your back the next. If he named you then he should have raised you also, like a real father—"

Altair's whole body stiffens; he jerks forward, and for a minute Malik thinks he's going to hurl both of them off the ledge. But just as quickly his shoulders sag and his face ages a year. Both boys stay carefully silent, aware that the wrong words now will have horrid consequences. The only sound is of the wind as it gusts and huffs the fight away.

"Sit down already," says Malik. "Before you fall off."

Altair does so, though he has to add a muttered "Not gonna fall" even now. He can't be any other person, after all, and truly Malik expects nothing less. They sit with their shoulders brushing and legs dangling, looking at the sun's reflection on the water.

"I told you the Order makes simple things complicated," sighs Malik. "Follow the Creed. Protect the innocent." _Keep Kadar safe_. "So what are we fighting about? Why are we even fighting? You don't give Abbas lectures on the Brotherhood, you just laugh in his face."

"That idiot? You understand more than he could even imagine. Him and Nasr and…they're all idiots. But you're not, though you're a fool in most other ways and a short beggar boy as well."

"A minute ago you said I didn't follow the Creed right. Now I understand it more than everyone? Is there anything but sand between your big ears?"

"Big ears?" huffs Altair, wounded. "I'm not talking about the Creed. I'm talking about…" He glares at his callused hands. "About this. About why we're so important, why we're so important together."

"Don't flatter me, I don't understand _that_ at all. Do you ever make sense?"

But Altair says, "You know what I'm talking about. The thrill, the rush, the...the world gets so narrowed down when you face it from behind a sword. Most of the time it's just drudgery but sometimes you angle yourself just right and what you can _do_ when that happens is—when that happens you know you were born for this life. There aren't any doubts or ranks or other novices. There's just you, holding power, because you were _meant_ to and you _can_."

Malik doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how Altair has discovered the longing so brutal he dreams about it at night.

"We understand," says Altair. "No one else does, except maybe the Master Assassins and obviously Al Mualim. But we do. If Nasr wants to call me a half-breed or you a beggar, let him. They don't matter. No one will remember him a hundred years from now, but you and I will leave our mark."

"Actually," Malik—who isn't so sure he understands, at least not with Altair's stern conviction—says thoughtfully, "you're the only one who ever calls me that. Nasr never does."

To his surprise, Altair laughs. "Because you punch him."

"I punch you but you can't keep your mouth closed."

"Because I punch back." The older boy leans back and studies Malik in tolerant condensation. "That should be obvious."

It's gotten even colder by now; the wind is stronger, rushing thick clouds through the sky. The sun lurks behind a haze. Perhaps there will be a storm, though they're so infrequent here. This time of year, they almost never come at all.

But despite the chill Malik has no real urge to leave. He presses closer to Altair for the warmth, for the feel of the other boy's presence. There's certainly nothing odd about friends holding hands or embracing; still, he rarely gets so close to Altair. There's a distance there he recognizes even if he doesn't know why it exists. It's rare for there to be any human contact between them that isn't in a training ring, and that scarcity makes him enjoy it more. The solid heat of Altair next to him is a foreign pleasure, something as enjoyable as it is suspect. Do all friends feel this connected? Malik's father had plenty of friends in the other village men, but he was still a _man_ and kept his own counsel. This sort of clingy pleasure feels too unnatural, too womanly. If Malik wasn't an assassin—and thus assured of his manhood—he might have started worrying after this day on the wooden ledge.

Altair shifts suddenly and rises back to his feet. He stands with the tips of his boots off the edge, legs bent slightly at the knee. "I think I _will_ jump," he announces. "It isn't so far down."

"You're an idiot," Malik says, getting to his own feet in a hurry. Surely even Altair isn't so cocky as to try a first leap of faith from _this_ distance. There isn't enough faith for a leap this high! "You'll break your neck, or your back, or your empty head."

"I'll land in the hay. I've been watching the others do it."

"Look down, Altair, not at the sky. You're not that good. What, did you forget you're not a bird?"

"Jump with me," says Altair. "We can jump from different platforms, there's plenty of hay."

"Oh, so you want both suicide and murder. We haven't been _taught_ this yet."

Altair has yet to look down. With his eyes still fixed on the sky he asks, "Did you mark this place down on your map?"

Thrown off by the sudden change in conversation, Malik eyes the older boy suspiciously. He never talks about his mapmaking with Altair, never cares for the other's disinterest in anything not done with a sword. "…Of course. It's part of the fortress."

"So others will know of your hiding place."

"It's no secret. Other assassins climb the watchtower sometimes. The guards are always here."

With a swishing of robes Altair turns and walks back down the length of the platform. His shoulder brushes Malik's, and in the second of their standing shoulder-to-shoulder he murmurs, "You should keep something for your own self, Brother." He leans in so close his lips brush Malik's ear, setting off sparks along his spine—but if there's anything else Altair wants to say, it isn't said with words.

Then he's gone, before Malik has a chance to react.

_-i-_

Three days after he turns fifteen, Malik is in the little side room he'd stumbled on all those months ago: it's as unused as it ever was, and the latticework is overgrown with vines curling in from outside. It's very pretty, but Malik isn't here to look at the architecture. He's here because the straw dummy is still standing in the corner, and so this room is a more private place to practice difficult moves.

Just as he raises an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow, something thumps onto the latticework from above and a shadow cuts into the midday sun. Startled, he looks up: Altair is crouched there, peering down. Just him, then, climbing roofs and walls again.

Malik calls, "There's a _door_."

Altair doesn't pull himself up from his crouch. His fingers poke through the lattice and his eyes narrow at the sight of the dummy. As ever his cowl is up and his robes flare dramatically; he's beginning to fill those robes, beginning to hold a real assassin's strong bearing, and Malik knows he himself isn't far behind. They're both fifteen, on the cusp of being made journeymen, and if they aren't quite adult they are in no way still children.

"Are you just gonna sit up there? Like a pigeon? You look like one, you know."

"How long as this room been here?" Altair demands.

Malik rolls his eyes. "I built it yesterday. Don't be dumb, I found it years ago. When I was, like, eleven."

"So this is where you go to practice. I'd wondered how you're always so perfect in front of a crowd."

"We can't all be protégés," Malik says. Yesterday the Master had called Altair his 'own protégé' in front of one of the last informers from Jerusalem. Whether because the Crusaders have slowed their assault for the winter or because Al Mualim's strategies have paid off, the refugees have stopped flowing into Masyaf and the urgent meetings have ended. Most of the Order's high-ranking guests have already left, but the few remaining are still being treated to the Master's praising of Altar.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," says Altair, preening.

"I'm not jealous. _Abbas_ is jealous. I think it's all pretty amusing."

"Abbas is the only novice our age who can't throw a straight dagger. It's no wonder they're shaping him into a common fortress guard. _They_ don't need to be good with knives."

"If you say so. Come off the roof so I can stop looking up at pigeon shit."

"Do you see a door?"

"Actually, yes, if you'd use the hallways like a normal person."

"A Master Assassin must be as skilled in climbing as in sword-fighting. You'll never get that good if you don't practice your free running—"

"Oh, go scold Abbas. You make me tired."

"Well," says Altair, and then stops. Malik doesn't hide his grin: the wrenched squeal in the older boy's voice comes and goes without warning, and is a deliciously easy thing to tease. Never mind that his own voice has turned untrustworthy in the last few months; never mind that he's suddenly finding hair _every_where, in awkward places hair has no business being. Altair's half-developed manhood is worth all sorts of good-natured jokes.

"Yes, Brother? You were saying? Or is it Sister Altair now? Hard to tell with your voice that high."

"Shut up," says Altair viciously. He takes nasty comments about his temper and his bloodline in stride these days, perhaps being used to them, but not all the puberty-related mockery has been as light-hearted as Malik's. Calling attention to his voice is an easy way to draw his ire, and that ire has only gotten louder with age. "You've nothing to jeer at, that _growth_ on your face makes you look diseased."

Malik rubs his chin with great indignation. "It's called a _beard_," he says, "and I'm not sure if I'm gonna keep it." Facial hair is another choice he has to make as an adult, since he has no religious edicts to fall back on. Some days he's tempted to shave it off, and some days he thinks he looks quite dashing. His beard isn't all grey and scraggly like the beards of some older men.

(Granted, his beard is made up of exactly five hairs and no one but Altair has even noticed its existence yet. But it still counts.)

"You should shave it. It's ugly."

"So's your face." Malik shrugs. "Rauf says city women like beards."

"Rauf has never been to any city and he's never talked to any women." Altair squints down through the ceiling. "And suddenly you care about city women too?"

There are several ways Malik could answer, the most truthful being that he knows that by now he's _supposed_ to care. Even Kadar has started daydreaming about the Master's garden. But Altair won't understand the uncertainty caused by this delay in attraction; Malik supposes he's too inhuman to care about romance, considering his view of family ties and his still-constant mockery of Kadar. Most of the time Altair doesn't seem to realize that women exist, and when he does talk about them it's to bemoan as useless any group that can't wield a blade.

Altair won't understand why Malik forces interest every time Rauf starts talking about legs and breasts. So for now all he says is, "Masyaf women are too hard to see. At least in the cities some of them show their faces."

"You think they're going to show their faces to you? You still look like a half-literate, bumbling peasant boy."

"And you look like a _djinn_ or a Crusader with that pale skin. You're outside all the time, how do you never get any darker? And will you come down off the roof already?"

"I'm not staying. I was going to tell you something before you interrupted."

"What is it?"

In a voice deliberately made deeper, so that he sounds sort of like a frog, Altair says, "I heard Master Al Mualim say that the _Dai_ of Jerusalem was settling into the fortress. I thought you'd want to know since you're always fiddling with that map."

Malik gapes up at him. "_Dai_ Faraj is back? Since when? No one told me, how long has he…"

"I don't know and I don't care. Just give him the stupid map so we can go for a run without you having to mark down some new pebble."

Malik feels for the rolled up parchment kept under his belt. It's been five months since Faraj left, and since then he's worked on his map until he's sure it's something of which the scholar will be proud. But why hasn't Faraj asked to see him, and it, yet?

"He must have just returned," Malik says. "He must be very busy."

Altair stands up, hands on hips. "Go give him the map. Then come train with me and Rauf. But _don't_ bring your brother this time, he isn't any good and he's always…"

"Altair," says Malik. "Thanks for telling me about _Dai_ Faraj."

The older boy reacts as he always does to unexpected kindness: he grimaces and storms away, head held high nonetheless. Malik watches the fortress swallow his shadow. Then he all but runs for the door.

He hasn't gone this way in five months (despite the old man's assurances, the room never felt as comforting when empty and the maps didn't feel like Malik's to touch) but his feet need no reminding. What good news, to have the _Dai _back at last! They'll go back to working on maps and languages, and won't he be impressed by how well Malik has memorized his Latin verbs? The fortress was so much colder without that comforting presence around. That presence that no one else had, save for his father…and it's been an awfully long while since Malik has thought about his father…

Eagerly he sees the familiar door and pushes it open without a knock. _Dai _Faraj will understand. "Safety and peace," he says happily as he enters. "Sorry for interrupting, _Dai_, but I thought…"

He stops. He stares. He does not understand.

The room is not what it was, nor what it should be; for a minute he thinks he's gone the wrong way after all. The table is empty but for a lit candle in an iron holder and a scroll still rolled together inside its case. The messes have been cleaned from the corners and the piles of books done away with—save for a neat shelf in the corner, containing mostly books of Christian scripture and the Quran. All of the maps are gone. The torn ones, the ones with the careful script smudged in oft-referenced places, the ones printed on thin paper and the expensive ones done in gold inks against parchment and set with jewels…all gone. There isn't a map left in the mapmaker's room.

And the man bent over the table with a rag, now looking up at him in startled surprise, isn't _Dai_ Faraj. He's far too young, his beard far too black, his face devoid of laugh lines and wrinkles around the eyes. He's no one Malik's ever seen before.

"I apologize," says Malik, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Someone told me the _Dai_ of Jerusalem was back."

"And he is." The strange man looks at him, confused. "Have we met? Has Al Mualim sent you to apprentice with me?"

"No, I…I'm waiting for _Dai_ Faraj to return from Jerusalem. This used to be his room."

"_Dai_ Faraj? Have you not heard the news?" The man shakes his head. Malik begins to feel nauseous, without warning or reason or chance of control. "You'd think," says the man dryly, "that people would keep informed in the heart of the Brotherhood."

Malik asks, and as he asks tells himself that surely his voice doesn't really sound so small: "Has he been delayed?"

The man says, not unkindly, "I'm sorry. They should have told you before this. _Dai_ Faraj was killed a little over two months ago."

Two months! But that's impossible…two months ago Malik had only just started shading in the river on his map, and…and Faraj…

"He fell in duty and died an honorable death," says the man. "He was buried with great respect and will be remembered for an eternity. I was an assistant of his in Jerusalem and have been sent here to cover his tasks for now." He adds, with some alarm, "The Master assured me that his apprentices had all been sent elsewhere, to mapmakers in other cities. I'm not…my specialty is in a different line…"

Malik does not recognize the sound of his own breathing. He pulls out his map, carefully tied closed, not a word poorly formed, not a stone left unmarked. "This was for him. He was supposed to look at it. He was supposed to compare it with his own."

"Faraj's maps have all been removed, but…I could look at it if you wanted. As I said, mapmaking isn't my art. Perhaps you should keep it for your own benefit, novice…" The man squints nearsightedly at him. "What did you say your name was?"

Malik gives the map an urgent shake. He's worked so hard on it. He's sweated over every line. "Take it! It needs to be corrected, _Dai._" His voice doesn't shake and he hates himself for it. _Dai _Faraj's replacement does not move to take the map.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "That I can't help you with."

Slowly, Malik lowers his hand with it still clenched around the parchment. His head hurts. There's the distant smell of smoke.

_Father I've forgotten you and I've forgotten what the village looked like Father I don't remember your voice_

"You should keep it," says the man. "I'm sure it's very important for you."

"No," says Malik calmly. "It isn't at all."

He crumples the map in his fist, feels the parchment wrinkle and rip. He lets it drop to the floor a waste, a mess, and before the man can say anything he turns to leave the room. _Dai_ Faraj's room. The room he'll never enter again. There are memories here, and he should inquire about the books Faraj said were his, but he doesn't—

Leaving is easier. Anger is easier. He strides down the hallway, burying himself in the fortress until there isn't another assassin anywhere in sight, and the isolation helps. The loss infuriates him; _he is so sick of losing_. Assassins die but the death is made no less permanent with honor attached. Honor. Who gives a damn? Better to live with it than die. And anger is safer because it isn't as bottomless as grief.

Even now, he upholds his promise. Malik has not cried since he was ten, and he does not cry today.

* * *

AN: "Had Allah willed…": An abbreviated quoting of _5.048 __of __Al Maeda_ in the_ Quran. _I think. One nice thing about this fic is I find myself doing research into the Quran/Islamic tradition, which I've always wanted to do. That being said I must admit that I have no idea how one quotes the Quran. With the Bible it's 'verse something, Book of Someone', and I could figure out the format for the Talmud if I had to thanks to years of Hebrew School, but I've had little practice with the Quran in my life.

I don't want to give the impression that Abbas is some religious nut-job. Abbas is a jealous grouch who wants the fame for himself; he uses religion as something to talk about, because he knows more about it than most of his fellow novices and can show off with that knowledge.


	11. Part One: Chapter Ten

AN: This chapter is...weird. It was a bitch to write, and I suppose it isn't really necessary for the plot. I didn't want to take it out, though. It was an attempt to expand world and character, and I think it does that decently. I should warn that it's a bit more, well...not graphic, but...basically, much of the chapter revolves around Malik potentially getting laid. (No, not by Altair. Yet.) It really doesn't go into intense detail, and if it still bothers then I'd suggest not reading much further into the story anyway because I've got stronger stuff planned. It only gets more entertaining from here.

Oh, and because people have been asking, I do have a da account (same name, link in profile) and as of a few weeks ago I've finally started using it. Only one thing posted at the moment, that zombie story I mentioned, but I might put more up soon.

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! Thanks to **skywalker05** for the description assistance. (Insert pastry reference here.)

* * *

_**Flesh and Dreams**_

_Dai_ Faraj's death leaves Malik in bad humor for weeks afterward. The fortress no longer seems so solid, the Brotherhood no longer seems so secure. He sees Al Mualim gliding down the staircase in the main hallway and wants to scream, _and did you expect this? and did you know? and when were you going to _tell_ me, old man? _But the thoughts are as disloyal as they are grief-stained and he shies away from them: the Master is still _his_ master, beyond questioning or doubt.

Malik tries to lose himself in his training. Whenever Nasr insults Altair it's a sure thing that the latter will end up in the ring, where he has control and power, but Malik isn't quite as naturally gifted and can't clear his mind with clever footwork. The ache in his gut is there no matter what he does. The advice he would have sought a year ago has been buried with its giver. All he can do is grit his teeth and tramp forward.

"I've had enough with these mindless tasks," says Altair one morning when they're in some elder's study, polishing weapons they aren't important enough to use. "I want to be sent on a mission. We're both more than ready."

"Most fifteen year olds don't want to kill people," mutters Malik. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"

Altair is undaunted by the bile. Though Malik's mourning anger has lasted long enough that Abbas and Rauf give him wide birth and even Kadar looks concerned, Altair has never once held back. He continues to talk to Malik as if nothing's changed, as if his one friend isn't suddenly snapping at everyone for everything…he can stand the tumult, if only because he's so used to it himself. "And you?" he says now, evenly. "Don't you also want to kill people?"

Malik clenches his fists around the broadsword in his lap. "Yeah," he says. "There are some people I'd like to tear to bits. And I'd do it _slow_…"

Altair does not look repulsed. Instead he gives a dark-lined smile. "You're finally starting to understand."

"Understand what? Your stupid lectures? All I understand is that there are a lot of Templars the Brotherhood hasn't bothered to kill."

"Rauf said yesterday that you'd changed. Did you hear him talking at dinner? He said you'd gotten so bloodthirsty. Loss is the closest friend of an assassin, you know, so we can't grieve so much over every slain man. And poor little Kadar looked like he agreed—"

"Shut up about my brother," snarls Malik. "I told you to stop talking about him!" He jerks himself to his feet, the sword hitting the floor with a clatter. "And I'm not bloodthirsty, I'm _angry_. What are we doing in this place while the Templars kill us off? What are we doing if not…"

But _Dai_ Faraj's warm whisper is in his ear: _No need to be hasty. No need to let the righteous fury curdle into something cruel. Assassins are not monsters, Malik._

_Go away_, he growls back. _If you can't come back then stay away._

Altair looks at him. For a minute he's sure he's about to be called crazy or sentimental. For a minute he's so angry he can't see.

"Malik," says the older boy, "the _Dai's_ killers won't go quickly. We'll make sure of that."

"Like you even care. You hadn't studied with him for years. Besides, vengeance is against the Creed."

"Everything is permitted," says Altair with certainty. He smirks down at the pile of weapons between them. "And between us we can try just about everything on them."

Malik says, "That's stupid," and goes back to polishing in silence. He keeps his eyes lowered so he doesn't have to confirm Altair's lingering gaze. Of course 'everything is permitted' doesn't mean assassins can take especial joy in murder. As per usual Altair twists everything around to suit himself.

(But even so, Malik finds he feels imperceptibly better now, as he goes about his work.)

_-i-_

Then something happens that piques even Malik's dulled interest. Even in his current black mood, all stymied vengeance and confusion, he's able to put aside some of the anger when Rauf turns sixteen. Sixteen in the Brotherhood is when a novice is made journeyman—a _real_ assassin, able to take lives. Some will stay journeymen the rest of their lives. Sixteen is when the body bends or breaks under the full weight of the Order.

More important than any of that is the unwritten rule of sixteen. It is because of this rule, not taught by any instructor nor passed down by any master, that Rauf begins to look more and more eager-nervous as his birthday draws near. The custom is silent but unbreakable…not that there are many who might want to break it.

The first night of his being sixteen, Rauf becomes a man.

Al Masyaf is too small to have anything like a brothel, but there is a larger village in the mountains, less than a day away if the rider spurs the horse, and in this village is a two-story house with its own guards and red curtains. Because the village is a busy one, because its market is large enough to do business with merchant caravans and city traders, the building-no-one-ever-talks-about does a brisk trade in flesh and dreams. Even the religious nature of most villagers doesn't hamper it much; the locals assume it is visited only by outsiders, and men from the Brotherhood are never far away.

For novices, pious scrabbling is hardly the main concern. A day's journey might as well be a year's for those who cannot leave Masyaf without permission. They cannot wander off to other villages as they feel the urge. But journeymen—_they_ are allowed to leave the stronghold, though only for a few days and never so far that the Master could not reach them quickly. And they are expected to meet their obligations in the fortress, to arrive on time for guard shifts and training. This sets the pattern that Rauf hesitantly follows the morning of his birthday, as all assassins his age do: leaving early in the morning will have him at the village by sunset, and leaving early the next morning will have him back in Masyaf by nightfall.

Malik finds himself in a small crowd of novices that morning, including Nasr and Kadar. Abbas is skulking in the background, trying to fit in. Whenever someone glances his way he makes sure to complain about sexual immorality. Altair is the only one of their age not around; no one knows where he is, and no one seems to care. In a cacophony of giggling and jokes as bad as they are dirty, Rauf is born down from the fortress through Masyaf, to the gates that hold back the mountains. The closer they get to the entrance, the more bewildered the whole group is by the looming reality of _sex_, and the louder they get in response. By the time they reach the first layer they're practically roaring.

The novices ring about the entryway, loitering as Rauf—the only one allowed through—takes a tiny step forward. (The guards should be shooing away this herd, but instead smirk and look away.) Kadar finds Malik and slips beside him, smiling.

"Y'think he's gonna go through with it?" he asks. The legend of the boy who was scared and hid for two days, then pretended as if he'd followed through, has been making the rounds lately. "Does he even know what to do?"

"He'll figure it out." Malik watches as Rauf small-steps his way to the stables. They've all been taught to ride in the nearby hills, though not all of them ride very well: Rauf looks nervously at the horses and glances back at the group.

"Keep going!" someone calls.

"Yeah, they're waiting for you."

"You'll break a lot of hearts if you don't go."

Kadar says happily, "I can't wait 'till I'm sixteen. Um." He glances sideways at his brother. "But could you explain how it works before I go? Just, um. In case."

In the background Rauf clambers onto a horse only to fall off the other side. Malik is very glad for the distraction.

"See you tomorrow, if they let you leave."

"Try the tall one. Kamal _swears_ the tall one is the best."

"No, the one with the beauty mark. Go for her."

"No…no, I heard…"

"Screw 'em all until they're panting," shouts Nasr, and the other novices go quiet with shock at the profanity. Abbas turns pink.

Malik murmurs, "Braggart," and Kadar nods.

Rauf finally manages to steady himself on his mount, a gorgeous black animal that keeps fighting the reins. He looks out at his audience and throws an arm in the air: "I'll see you children when I return from—" At that moment the horse rears back with a squeal; Rauf gives a squeal of his own and throws both arms around its neck in sheer terror. Man and beast gallop away down the road, though it's hard to say who is controlling what. The novices stare after them in silence.

"Well," says Kadar after a while. "He looked prepared."

"He's going to ride off a cliff and die," groans Nasr. "Can you imagine dying a virgin? They'll mistake him for a woman at his funeral!"

"This is what comes from relations outside of marriage, with harlots and…"

"So are you not going to go when you turn sixteen, Abbas?"

"I, I never said that. I have always wondered what a harlot looks like."

"Malik," says Kadar as the two turn away to head back to the fortress, "I'm glad you were here."

Malik grins at his brother. "Why wouldn't I want to watch Rauf get trampled in his attempt to visit a prostitute? Such things give life meaning." The village is busy and they lose themselves in the crowds, following the winding path between slumping buildings. Though they are young assassins themselves the guards still watch them as they go by. The eyes of the Brotherhood are upon them as always, a comfort or a constraint or something of the two.

Kadar crosses his arms and says quietly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna come. You haven't…been around much lately."

"I know." Malik stares at the line of houses before them. "I haven't been."

"And even when you _are_ it's like you don't want to talk to anyone. Not even me. I thought maybe you wouldn't want to be around the rest of us today, either. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go but I thought maybe I'd be bothering you so I just waited to see what you…"

"Kadar." He stops walking. Puts his hands on Kadar's shoulders. Turns him around so that they're facing each other. An old man in a yellow turban grumbles behind them at their blocking of the path, but he ignores the distraction. "I know I've been unsociable lately. I'm sorry for it. But even if I'm in a terrible mood I'll still talk to you. You couldn't be a bother if you tried. We're brothers, remember?"

"There are a lot of those walking around," Kadar harrumphs. "It's hard to tell with you sometimes. Usually you're fine but sometimes you just…get really mean, and no one knows why. You should warn people! Or at least tell them what's wrong when they ask. You never want to tell _me_ anything."

"Oh, come on, I tell you things. You've been saying I don't since you were a kid."

"Because you don't! It's always 'don't worry about it, Kadar', or 'let me handle that, Kadar', or 'you're too young to deal with this, Kadar'. 'Stop hanging upside down from that beam, Kadar'."

"That beam was six feet off the ground. If you'd fallen you would have died!"

'"Don't eat rotten fruit, Kadar, and no, I don't care that you bet Rauf one of his throwing knives that you could eat the whole thing and not puke.'"

"That was a stupid bet. You'll get your own knives soon. It's not like you know what to do with the ones you use in practice."

'"Kadar, if you climb up the side of the fortress and get stuck on that ledge I am not going to rescue you', except that you totally did."

"It was either that or let eagles pick out your eyes. But my robes got all torn up in the process and Altair laughed the whole time I was carrying you down. You gotta stop thinking you can climb as high as he can, because you _can't_. You get halfway up and freeze, and then I'm the one who has to save your behind."

"That's not the point."

"Did you have a point? You say I never tell you anything but it sounds to me like I tell you everything and then you _ignore_ me."

Kadar sings, '"Stop asking me to teach you that one thing Altair does because you're too young to do whatever it is.' Oh, and then there was the time you said—"

"Alright, you silly fool," laughs Malik. "Next time you want to poison yourself with bad fruit, I won't stop you."

His brother pulls free from his grasp. "I'm still the only one who can get you to laugh off a bad mood," he says with satisfaction.

"That's true." Malik moves to the side of the path, sitting down on an empty bench made of wood slats nailed together and warping under the sun. Kadar sits beside him. For a while they watch the crowds.

"Brother?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think Father would say if he knew we were gonna visit prostitutes soon?"

Malik thinks quickly. "I think he would understand that we aren't who we were. Who we were supposed to be." He isn't sure if this makes sense, even to himself, but Kadar nods and apparently accepts it.

"Ok. I've just been wondering lately 'cause I remember he started making you memorize the Quran when you were ten. I'm ten now but I don't know any of it, except the parts Abbas likes."

"You could ask him to teach you if you want. He'd be thrilled. And it'd be a lot easier for you since you can actually read the words. Father was going to make me repeat after him a thousand times over. Ask Abbas to teach you."

"I dunno." Kadar scratches his head. "It doesn't seem that important, does it?"

"…No. It doesn't."

"Which is kinda sad. I mean, if you think of how Father would feel."

"Our father isn't here." Malik narrows his eyes. "We can't worry about how the dead think," he says, echoing Altair. The words don't _feel_ right but they make him sound as an assassin should. "We can't mourn every lost man forever. We have to live our lives without his help, and we _have_ been. I'm the one who has to protect you now and I…" He shakes his head. "I don't care if you memorize the Quran. Father prayed to Allah every day and the Templars still killed him."

Kadar goes quiet. For a while, they don't speak. Then:

"Malik?"

"What is it?"

"So, uh, just because I should probably know for, uh, future events. When Rauf gets to the brothel, assuming he doesn't get eaten by his horse first, is he gonna…how does…um. Because when I asked Nasr he laughed at me for not knowing and said that sex is when you take your—"

"Kadar_, hold your tongue_." Malik groans, "You're too young for anything Nasr says."

"See, there you go again! How come when _you_ were ten you were an adult already?"

"Because I—look, a pigeon. Think it's one of the Master's birds?"

"That was a really bad way to change the subject. Why would I care about pigeons when they roost all over Masyaf? The other day when you weren't at dinner Abbas and Nasr were fighting about something and Rauf was saying they were both dumb when a pigeon came by and…"

One thing Malik has learned over the years: there's no need to distract Kadar away from an issue when he's so good at distracting himself.

_-i-_

Rauf's spectacular failure at horse-riding convinces Malik to practice his own rusty skills, and by midday of the next morning he's already exhausted and aching. The horse given to him by the stable master is an old mare used to awkward novice riders; all Malik has to do is point her in the right direction and she follows the dirt path back to the stables. The road around him is flecked here and there with people, most headed to Masyaf, a few headed away. Farmers from the local area come to bargain and barter, as well as the odd woman on her way to visit family within the gates.

Once there the horse waits patiently while Malik struggles with removing the saddle, and then moves over to the toughs for a long drink. Malik, his throat parched by hours of riding under the heavy sun and his robes gone grey with dust from the road, is tempted to splash his head in after her.

He isn't a terrible rider, but in this area 'not terrible' is the same as 'worthless.' How else besides horse or camel can one ever travel anywhere at all? To walk towards even the nearest village takes days. But Malik wasn't born into a household rich enough for horses…only rarely did anyone besides Hamid or Murtada travel a significant distance.

_If we'd had horses_, he thinks now, staring at his mount and swatting at the flies. _If people could have fled the Templars on horseback, they might've made it through._

Abruptly the heat and the stable's smell prove to be too much. He turns away, forcing out the thoughts of long-dead men: there's no point in trying to rescue what's been lost. He's made sure Kadar is a fine rider, anyway…he's put his brother onto a horse in all kinds of weather, pushed him into practice until the younger boy complains. If Templars strike and there's no way to defeat them, Kadar will be able to get away.

Just as he slips inside the gates, someone behind him yells amid the sound of hoof beats. Malik glances over his shoulder and is surprised to see a horse round the bend in the road, mane flying, ears perked forward, galloping for the sheer joy of long, free runs. The woman the creature had nearly trampled in its glee, a stout matron in brown robes and a drab olive headdress, shakes an indignant fist. The fancy saddle marks it as one of the Order's, but Brotherhood horses are often as unpredictable as the men they bear. And in this case the horse isn't bearing anyone anyway.

The two guards at the gate have their hands on their swords and are busy scanning the road where it curves up ahead, so it's up to weary Malik to catch hold of the horse and calm it down. Easier said than accomplished: it whickers and kicks up its legs, in no hurry to go back to the stables. Woman, guards, and other horses all watch him chase the beast around in circles; no one says anything, though, warned well enough off by his heat-drenched expression. Sweat glues his collar to the back of his neck and the horse flies are starting to find him more worthwhile than their usual prey.

Finally, with much swearing, he is able to catch hold of the reins and bring the horse over to the stables. "Where did you come from?" he grumbles as it dips its head for a drink. "And what did you do with your rider?"

"Left him behind," says one of the guards suddenly, speaking with a heavy, slurry accent Malik has been told is common in the Damascus area. "Look over there."

He turns and, sure enough, a small figure in white tunic, grey cowl, grey leggings, and dirt-covered boots is huffing his way around the bend in the road. Malik squints, makes out the scraggly facial hair that is a recent but noticeable addition, and bites his cheek to keep from laughing. The guards don't bother to hide their snickering, and even the woman in the green scarf chuckles as she passes through the gate.

Malik waits until Rauf has gotten closer before he calls, "So were you too sore to ride back, then?"

Rauf drags himself over and stands gasping for breath, bent over with his hands on his hips. "I," he tries. "That. When I."

"Where, who, what," helps Malik. "Why?"

"That demon. Not a horse. Demon. Allah damn the first man to…tame a horse!"

"Or Allah give journeyman assassin Rauf the ability to ride."

"Listen, you. This horse is possessed. Or it's a Templar horse! Just as we passed under the old arches I saw some of our Brothers. Al Mualim sent them to make sure the surrounding roads are clear. So I went over to give my greetings as one assassin to the next—it's good manners! But this horse, when I leaned over…before I could even get the words _safety and peace_ out of my mouth, it took off like an arrow fired from our best archer.

"I held on for a little while but then the road curved and I thought it was going to keep running right off the cliff! I'd no interest in ending up at the bottom of that lake, so I made the decision to jump off. You know how rocky the ground is, I could have broken my head open, but as an assassin mere risk of injury isn't enough to prevent our actions…"

"So," Malik says, "you saw some assassins and went over to brag about your new rank. But you spooked your horse, probably by tugging on the reins when you leaned forward like you did the last three times I've gone riding with you, and it bolted. Master Assassins can control a panicked mount in the heat of battle, but as you're only a journeyman you just fell off."

"Listen, you," Rauf says again, laughing. Malik grins and eyes his torn uniform. It's hard to tell what bruises are from the riding mishap and which are from something else entirely, but there are a bunch of odd red marks clustered about Rauf's neck that don't look…horse-related.

"Well? How was it?"

"It—" Rauf blushes. It's impressive just how dark his face can turn, considering he was already flushed from running. "Well, it…there were three of them, er. That I saw. And really they seemed quite nice although…it's clear why a pure society wouldn't have any harlots because no proper woman should know as much as they did about. Er."

"About?"

Rauf's eyes go foggy. "I think that if it's true Allah made the world, He knew what He was doing when He didn't give us a pure society."

Malik digests this. "Were they pretty?"

"Oh, God." Rauf actually starts looking a bit ill. "That's the least of what they were. There was this redhead who…Malik, you don't _understand_. I didn't know such flexibility was possible! And then…ah…the dark-skinned one did this thing where she took her…ah. I don't think I can explain this."

"Oh. …Did they like the beard?"

He runs a grubby hand over his chin. "They said it made me look very manly." He looks hopefully at Malik. "I think they were being sincere? The redhead said they saw lots of novices turning sixteen but that they still, um. Liked me. I think the beard really helped."

"Maybe once it covers your whole chin," Malik offers after a long, long pause.

"I need to go wash up. I'm covered in dirt and I smell like horse."

"Not really. You actually…why do you smell like _flowers_?"

"W-Well, the…the _ladies_ keep incense in the rooms. To hide the stench of clientele, they said, or something like that. Also they anoint themselves with oil and…Malik, I _swear_," and Rauf grabs his arm, "Al Mualim's ladies of paradise can't be as lovely as these women were. No innocent virgin could be as alluring. I don't care if they were whores, I've never seen such breasts before."

"You've never seen any breasts before."

"And those long legs, and that silky hair, and…count the days until you turn sixteen, my friend."

Malik manages a smile as Rauf launches into a dreamy explanation of luscious, red-lipped women and the secrets kept hidden under silk robes. He listens as Rauf describes _sex_ and, well. It all sounds very complicated. The positions and the—the thrusting—

He knows of legs and breasts and even has a general theory as to that one bit between the legs and breasts. To hear of them in use, though, doesn't add much to his curiosity. All this talk of womanly wiles, of fluid movements, of—uh—other fluids: in the end he finds himself bored by the details. In fact he's almost more interested in hearing what _Rauf_ did, though such interest makes little sense and he ignores it entirely. Probably lovemaking is something that has to be experienced for the full effect. He'll find out soon enough.

"You'd better go up to the fortress," he says. "There're a lot of novices who want all the details. Kadar's included but if you want to mysteriously forget everything that happened around him, I wouldn't complain."

"Right. Are you coming with me?"

"Might as well. I was heading back up myself before your horse decided it was safer for you to walk."

"Hah. Actually, ah, if you happen to be around when I find everyone else…"

"Mm?"

"If you could not, you know, mention the part about the horse? I'm a journeyman now, so. You know."

Malik looks at his friend and raises an eyebrow. "You're awfully dirty for someone who didn't fall off a horse. How're you going to explain all the cuts and bruises?"

"Well…"

"Oh."

"Please, Brother?"

Malik grins again and bobs his head. He wouldn't cover for Altair—he'd be the one laughing hardest if it was Altair—but good-natured Rauf is usually willing to own up to mistakes. Not everyone is as stubborn as that pale-skinned jerk who's barely been around for the past two days and is no doubt sulking somewhere for some stupid reason because he gets so grumpy around any mention of women and sex and _oh Allah why did I ever think of Altair and sex together?_

"I won't tell anyone," he says to Rauf. "I'll just nod and smile and—what is that tucked into your collar?"

"What? There's nothing there."

"Right there. That bit of purple." Rauf tries to dodge away, but Malik grabs with nimble fingers and pulls out a piece of gauzy fabric, dyed purple with gold lines. "A scarf?"

"Just—just a small one! For the wrists, for…for dancing and. Ah. More dancing."

Malik stares at him. "Rauf, did you take a scarf from one of the prostitutes?"

Rauf blushes again.

_-i-_

Altair is the next of them to turn sixteen. The other novices debate furiously on whether or not to bother with upholding tradition for him: it's not as though he cares about women. Or most of said novices. Or anything. He won't enjoy their attention and no one will enjoy offering it. But in the end Altair is still a fellow assassin, albeit an annoying one, and the Brotherhood is clad in its customs. Even the unwritten ones. So, the morning of Altair's birthday, they all gather in front of his door.

Only he isn't inside.

The room is empty but for the rolls of bedding along the walls. The novices mill about, chagrined at this flagrant disrespect of Brotherhood tradition. "He's the one who's always talking about upholding the Order," says Abbas. "But he doesn't think he needs any help. I bet he'd like to be the only assassin besides Al Mualim."

Malik peers inside the room and pictures the night before. He'd gone over to Altair to tease him about the looming events, because it didn't seem right for there to be so little joviality. They'd made fun of Rauf for a week before he went. But as Malik opened his mouth Altair cut him off with a scowl:

"Why is he here again?" A fierce nod to where Kadar was laying out his blankets for the night.

"To sleep. Why are any of us here?"

"He isn't supposed to be here. This room is for the older novices. If anyone could sleep here they wouldn't have moved us at all."

"Oh, it doesn't matter—"

"It does! You, me, Abbas, Rauf, Nasr and Raed. Older novices and young journeymen only. It's bad enough we journeymen have to share a room with novices at all. Your brother isn't nearly old enough."

Malik had scowled, then. Altair was nigh insufferable when he was made a journeyman before his sixteenth birthday, something that is almost never done. Never mind that Malik himself had been promoted a few weeks later, also impressively far before he turned sixteen. And now this dumb show of strength. "It doesn't _matter_," he said. "Kadar is just one extra person. There's plenty of room for him."

Altair had stared at him, long and hard. "Do you think you are doing him a favor?" he'd asked. "Do you think this coddling will turn him into a real assassin? Let him sleep in the main room like any other novice. He doesn't need you to be around all the time, even if you think he does."

Malik had been so angry he'd stormed off. Only later did he realize that Altair had successfully avoided any mention of sex.

"I don't understand," Rauf says now. "I never would've thought _he'd_ be too shy."

Nasr sneers. "Even whores deserve better then to have to sleep with a dirty half-breed. He's doing all of them a favor."

"I wonder where he went," says Kadar. "I wonder what he's doing."

Malik says nothing, wrapped up as he is in the layers of Altair's scheming. How much of his arrogance is carefully planned? How much of it is true? Why, when his life has not yet been at risk, and when he is so talented, does he always raise his cowl and hide his eyes?

(Two days later he is watching a guard captain teach Rauf how to control a squad of men in the main courtyard when there's a rustling of cloth at his shoulder. He turns to see Altair standing there, calm as anything but smelling faintly of horse. Malik glances down and sees dirt caked to the other boy's boots. He looks up again and sees the now-familiar cluster of red marks on Altair's neck.

"You did go," he says, realization dawning. "When we went to find you, you'd already gone."

"Of course. What, did you think I'd run?"

"You didn't wait."

"Wait? What for? I don't need your permission to finish my missions."

"It wasn't a _mission_. Altair-…"

"I thought of telling you before I left. But I didn't want your brother tailing after me like he always does."

"You like the attention, stop pretending you don't. Altair, how _was_ it? Did you really…?"

"Obviously."

"Which one?"

"The redhead," he says dismissively. "Or the brunette. I don't really remember."

"How can you not remember something like that? Wasn't it good? How long were you there? Why didn't you tell anyone you were going?"

"You sound ridiculous," Altair snaps. "You're an assassin, not a child. Don't you know what sex is yet? All any of you ever talk about these days is women, and meanwhile Rauf still can't march in a straight line. It's pathetic! I thought that maybe _you'd_ be smarter."

And Altair stalks off, leaving Malik gaping after him in his wake.)

_-i-_

First Rauf, and then Altair. Next comes Malik A-Sayf's turn.

He suffers through Nasr's dark humor, Abbas crashing his sermons against his obvious desire for details, Rauf's attempts to 'help' ("If they ask you if you're tired you should always just say _no_."). He survives Kadar, who swarms up at unexpected times with his band of novices, all of whom want jokes and details and preferably _souvenirs_. He ignores the older guards when they grin and make lewd gestures. He's even able to keep a straight face around Raed when the other boy asks if he's sure he knows _how it works_, really, and if so what position did he have in mind? Malik says some witty phrase that leaves Raed in awe and himself looking quite manly. Then, the minute Raed leaves, he rushes to the nearest empty room and has a minor attack of nerves.

It can't be that complicated. It can't be that hard. All he'll have to do is—and then the woman will—and—but what if—? Well, what's the worst that could happen? He could fail to satisfy, but surely prostitutes aren't hard to keep happy. Except that they have so many others to compare him with…

The night before his birthday, Malik feels so queasy he can't sleep. Men have been having sex with women since the start of time; they take wives and mistresses and slaves, they go to brothels when they can. Would anyone bother if it wasn't more enjoyable than stressful? Shouldn't he be more excited than he is? He's about to be sixteen, and if he wasn't an assassin he'd probably be preparing for his wedding night anyway. He should _want_ to be tended to by beautiful women with delicate hands. Right?

Because he can't sleep he leaves his room once he's sure Kadar is too deeply asleep to be at serious nightmare risk. It's a cool night, or as cool as it ever gets in this part of the world at this time of year, the night air thick and glassy against his skin. He considers climbing the watchtower and sitting on one of the beams, but as unsettled as he is the thought of being so high up isn't a nice one. Then he decides to go practice his kicks in the room with the latticed ceiling, or maybe in one of the side courtyards, but there just isn't enough energy in his limbs. If _Dai_ Faraj was still alive he could retreat to the safety of his study, but…

No. There is no hidden place.

But he needs to go somewhere, and so Malik ultimately ends up at the bottom of the village, near the marketplace where the stalls are all shuttered or dismantled for now. They'll be bustling come Friday, after evening prayers are done, but Masyaf at night is silent. The occasional assassin passes by, and once he hears the tell-tale _thump_ of feet striking roof. Malik finds a bench that faces the wooden gate and, pulling off his boots, buries his bare feet among the half-dead weeds at its base. The dirt sifts between his toes, cool as the air.

He expects that Altair will find him. He expects that they will sit here and snap at each other, bicker and grumble and shove, and maybe in the midst of all that something deeply buried and dangerous will show itself. If anyone can explain Malik's confusion, at himself and his life and his stirring desires, it will be the boy who so hated having to do as expected that he did it when no one was there to watch.

Malik does not understand Altair and does not always like him, but he trusts the older boy with a certainty pulled from the marrow of his bones. Altair mocks but he _knows_. Altair isn't an enjoyable person but maybe he's too beyond _nice_ to care. If Malik was to grab him by the wrists and curse him, strike him, call him a filthy half-breed and worse things besides—if Malik _hated_ Altair, still he could never pull free from that aura. There is something cementing them together. The only real question is who's holding on with a white-knuckled grip, and who's trying to break loose.

The stars hang high over Al Masyaf, and Malik (who is about to turn sixteen, who would not recognize his own father if he saw him walking down the road) waits for Altair to appear and explain away tomorrow in scoffs and sneers.

When the other boy fails to appear, Malik feels strangely betrayed.

_-i-_

They let him go with only a few comments: 'they' being the usual band of novices and Rauf. "Show her who's in control," says Nasr. "Get a little rough and she'll do anything."

Rauf corrects him, "Treat her well, ask her what her name is. She'll like that."

"It isn't possible to offend a fallen woman," lectures Abbas. "If she was really a virtuous person she wouldn't let you even look at her without her father there."

And Kadar is confused: "What's it matter if she's a harlot or not? If everything's permitted then I don't see why we gotta act different 'round women than men."

Altair is not among them to offer his counsel, though Malik thinks he feels eyes watching him as he saddles his horse. When he turns to gaze out at the village, though, no half-hidden shapes crouching on rooftops or peering out from haystacks make themselves known. Is Altair really watching from some secret spot? Is Malik just imagining it all?

He settles himself on the horse, adjusting his posture to make room for the sword at his waist, and digs his heels into its sides. The hoof beats echo as the beast takes off, rounding the curve in the path and putting mountain between Malik and his maybe-watcher. Though he himself has traveled this road only rarely since his first arrival, on small missions and guard rotations, his horse knows exactly where to go and essentially leads itself. Malik sits back, hands still gripping at the reins, and loses himself in the countryside. The mountains on his left plunge him into shadow; the river on his right eats away the land below. The old arches appear, still standing six years later, as they will no doubt be standing ten years from now. There are some assassins gathered in their shadows, and they call out as Malik gallops past. He waves but does not stop.

After a few hours of riding, Malik tugs at the reins and points the horse away from the main road. It continues on, following the river, leading into Saracen territory. Lately the Crusaders have been making a push for this stretch, but that brings war too close to Masyaf. Though the assassins fight for the people, not for the armies, and though they are disliked as much by Saladin's men as by Richard's, it would do the Arab peoples of this land no good to be conquered by the Christians. Many Brothers have in recent months been sent out to keep the Crusader armies back, but that doesn't mean they allow Saladin's men to march forward. For all that Al Mualim claims not to lead an army, his Order now controls much land that other leaders want.

But where the assassins hold sway there is peace. No burning of villages, no sacking of cities, no slaughter of religious leaders when another religion takes over. _Nothing is true._ The assassins are above kings and their squabbles. It is surely best for the people if they are guarded and sheltered by the shepherds in white…

Malik shakes his head to clear it, and turns his thoughts from politics as he turns his horse from the road. He will not be riding any deeper into Saracen lands today, not armed as lightly as he is. Instead he turns onto another path, thin and rocky and winding, cutting up through the mountains. At some point this road cuts into the village he seeks, hidden even deeper within the cliffs then Al Masyaf. It's too small to have a name and yet it's large enough for merchants and brothels—though the road is unusually empty as he starts across it. His authority as assassin is enough to clear the way past the few travelers he sees.

Gradually houses appear along the road. A bend reveals the whole of the village not long after. It's of a haphazard layout, with buildings stacked around apparently at random. The village is in the thick of the mountains, so there's only so much room in the valley at all, but at one end are rows of stands. Fruit lies piled in hand-carts and crates of chickens cluck whenever someone walks by. Malik sees scuffed wooden boards peeling from walls, and roofs wearing thin. Piles of hay next to houses are mingled with trash: shingles that had been patched and re-patched, rinds and scraps of fruit. The grass is thick except where it grows sparsely in the shade, and the brown houses look too exhausted to hold up their own dilapidated balconies.

This is the sort of basic poverty Malik knows well, and it doesn't bother him much. More concerning is why, for a busy market town, the crowds are so sparse and the roads so clear. There are only a few other horses in the main stables, and no sign of his Brothers. The unrest has reached even this far into assassin territory? But with assassins come safe places! _Everything is connected_, _Dai_ Faraj whispers at the back of Malik's mind. But _Dai_ Faraj is dead, and therefore he must be wrong.

The gait of the horse isn't exactly smooth, not with the uneven ground and the flies that make the horse's skin twitch and its tail flick. It's quicker than walking, though, and it makes the low roofs and muddy courtyards seem to drift past like clouds. A strange inversion of paradise, if any paradise at all.

The green-leafed trees cling to the hillsides with bony, gnarled roots tearing up from the dirt. Bushes sprout between the buildings and weedy flowers blossom in the wet ground near horse troughs. There's more vegetation here than in Masyaf, a fact that reminds Malik of his travels with Kadar. They could have foraged for figs here—but they would never have bothered to venture this far up the mountain. Malik had been too near starving for that.

Altair would have climbed, though, starving or full. He would have made his presence known for the sheer need to be observed. Malik can hear Altair loftily commenting on the hunger just starting to make itself known in his gut today: he would say that he could go on without food even if they had been riding for hours. Even if they were both exhausted he would never suggest they stop. And he would ride his horse about this village and learn every inch of it without the least bit of concern for its people. Strange, really, that Altair is an assassin, when he holds himself so above the common man. He would fight to the death for them and yet he disdains them at every turn. Perhaps it is the promise of blood that keeps him focused. No, had he traveled with the A-Sayf brothers then Altair would have said—

Malik tosses his head to distract himself. He wants nothing of this conversation, even if he isn't really having it. There isn't a need for any more layers or regrets to the strange rapport he has with Altair. Their relationship takes up enough of his time already.

(But Altair would say that they didn't need to stop, and Malik would say, "No, novice, we do not." He would sweep a hand out to encompass the steep slopes and the town peeking coyly from between the rocks. "We are already here, or didn't you notice?"

Altair would hackle. Always a contest to win or lose.)

The town grows larger and closer, revealing sweeping expanses of buildings nestled about the valley. None of the buildings are higher than two stories, but the alar roofs slope downwards in rotting bundles of thatch. If an assassin started slipping on one of those roofs he would keep slipping, and make noise doing so. Better to climb along the spines of the buildings, where things are more level. Malik narrows his eyes as he raises his chin to look past a spire of fallen rocks at the far edge of town. From here the road curves around and toward the top of the mountain, but the people who had built the road had found the easiest route to the wider, flatter land and had chosen to put the village here. Narrow roads are easily blocked by invaders, but hiding between mountains is a good way to go unnoticed. Malik tries to imagine what would happen if the valley fell in flames. Where could the people run? The road leads steeply upwards for miles from here, and children would have trouble with it.

Still, if the Templars come here the assassins will stop them. It must be nice, Malik thinks, to have that sort of assurance built into the stone foundations.

His horse snorts, jarring him back out of ugly thoughts. He steers the animal towards the stables in the village's center, distinguished only by the two horses and one scraggly mule already there. There isn't much of a stable itself, just some hay slung in front of a warped and sagging building, so long abandoned there are vines curling between the metal braces sunk in the walls. There's also an old man, grey from his robes to his beard to his foggy eyes, sitting nearby on a blanket under a tree. Malik dismounts, trusting his horse to find the hay and stay close to it. As he draws near the old man straightens up.

"Safety and peace," Malik says.

The man's blind eyes gaze past his left shoulder. "You're one of Al Mualim's boys? Thought you were. Heard your weapons jangling." Malik frowns, as the last thing any assassin should do is _jangle_. Clearly some of his five throwing knives have not been hidden properly. The old man stretches out his legs, flexing his bare feet. "How is the old man of the mountain?" he asks.

"The Master does well. May I leave my horse here?"

"No point in asking. Not as if your kind would ever have to pay. But this village already has a bunch of you roaming around. I can hear them marching, climbing buildings, whatever. Al Mualim thinks we need one more?"

"I'll be back for my horse tomorrow morning," says Malik, a touch stiffly. "I'm not one of the Brothers assigned to stay here."

The man chuckles. "Don't get so sore, I could've guessed. You're not the only assassin to come lurking around for a night." Malik takes a step past him, but suddenly the old man blurts out, "You sound young," and seems almost frail.

"I'm sixteen."

"Young, then."

"No."

"Listen, don't—don't pay me any attention. Just an old man likes to talk a lot. I talked with your master once or twice… See, my son was one of you. Years ago. I'm too old to remember what he looked like, even. When he was young, young like you I mean, he wanted to help protect the village so he went to join the assassins. No need for it. He could've stayed behind. I never did trust travel much, 'cause I figure a man should stay where Allah put his roots, but my boy went where his master ordered." A shrug. "They killed him in Jerusalem," the man says, without mentioning which _they_ it was. "If he'd stayed here he'd have been fine."

Malik isn't sure how to respond. It's probably true to say that assassins know the risks when they join the Order, but to actually say so feels needlessly cruel.

"But don't listen to me. I barely remember him anyway, like I said." The man points, a vague smile on his face. "If it's the whorehouse you're after, keep going straight 'till you reach the fence, then turn left. It's got a courtyard and a garden, and there're red curtains unless someone's torn them down again. Still remember what it all looks like, you know. Like I saw it yesterday. Garden, red curtains. Hard to miss. But don't make too much of a fuss going in, or the neighbors'll remember it's there. Every year there's some _sheik_ wants to purify the mountain and burn it down."

With a sigh, the man drops his arm. He looks back up at the sun, though it can't mean much to his eyes anymore. "Still remember what it all looks like," he says. "The whorehouse and the _sheiks."_

Malik hesitates. He nods his head, feels stupid for nodding his head, and takes a few small steps in the offered direction. Then, biting at his lower lip, he stops.

"But not your-…did you really forget what your son looked like?" he asks. "Did you really get over his death?"

The old man lowers his gaze from the sky, and his eyes don't seem quite as sightless when they bore into Malik. He smiles.

'"Course I didn't forget," he says. "You never forget it and you never get over it, neither. I'll tell you, I was pretty relieved when the eyes went because before that I kept thinking I saw him, hiding in a bush or running down the road. Always just outta the corner of my eye. I thought that if I could turn 'round a little faster…"

Malik says desperately, "But it was years ago."

"Yup. And I could tell you today which teeth he was missing. What his hands looked like. I still remember the shirt we buried him in. Sometimes I think I hear him talking so I tilt my head to listen, like this-..." –and he demonstrates— "just in case it really is him. 'Cause if it is I want to hear."

"He died a long time ago," says Malik before he can stop himself, "and you still have to sit here and wait? Is that all you can do? Sit here and, and go crazy waiting for your dead son? That won't _fix_ anything." He cuts himself off, flushing, aware that he's said too much. But all the old man does is chuckle again, at the back of his throat, and lean back against the tree.

"It's all _I_ can do," he says. "But you come see me when you bring back the dead. I'll have something to say to you then."

Malik leaves quickly, without even a parting _safety and peace_. He thinks he can hear the old man laughing at his hurried footsteps, but he doesn't turn around to see.

_-i-_

It isn't hard to find the brothel: there really are red curtains, though Malik doesn't see any guards out front. The building itself is two stories of crumbling stonework. An iron balcony runs along the whole of the second floor, but the amount of rust suggests no one has been brave enough to use it for a while. Malik has trouble imagining a town like this, so basic and given to superstitions even with the Brotherhood's presence, playing host to prostitutes. Rauf has described city brothels, great mosaic-draped palaces, colorful, bedecked with fountains and marble floors. He says that such places are host to women from all over the world, every religion and every skin tone, lounging on soft cushions with red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes. Rauf is also making at least seventy percent of it up, but the lush image remains.

What Malik looks at now is a lot less appealing, and a lot less comforting. Anyone's mother or sister could live in that house.

One thing this village doesn't appear to have is a mosque, at least not one that Malik can see. He soon realizes that there must be one hidden in the hills, because from nowhere comes the sudden, echoing call of the _muezzin_ for prayer. The ephemeral drone is taken by the mountains and stretched thin: the actual words are distorted beyond understanding, but the sense of ancient song remains. It's enough to raise gooseflesh on Malik's arms, and that more than anything sends him hurrying to the brothel's door. No longer is the outside world more comforting then whatever awaits him, not with prayer replacing air. It feels even crasser now, visiting whores while his father's god awaits supplication. (The call to prayer is not one he hears often in Al Masyaf.)

He lifts his hand to knock and lets it hang just above the door. So uncertain is he that he's tempted to go through a window. Assassins are trained well in spying and infiltration; there aren't many locks he couldn't pick, not many walls he couldn't climb. But the one thing an assassin doesn't often do is announce himself as is, without any sort of masquerade. Even informers must have a cover disguise. To knock on this door, dressed as he is? To explain his true motives and enter as would any other man? Malik can hide and eavesdrop and avoid detection. He isn't as good at using the front door.

But as an assassin he cannot shy away from his task. Why this supposedly-exciting event should leave him feeling uneasy and a little annoyed, he doesn't know. Whatever makes a man want to lie with a woman hasn't yet awoken in his body, and he suspects the next few hours will be more dutiful task than tasting of pleasure.

He lowers his hand against the rough wood of the door and knocks.

It opens almost before his hand has a chance to pull away, by a man in billowing black robes and cragged face. Suspicious eyes flick against Malik and note his belt, his red sash, the sword strapped to his waist that he can now, as a journeyman, keep on his person at all times. The man grunts and steps aside. As Malik enters the guard presses himself next to the door with his arms folded, and he holds this position for the entirety of the visit. For other men it might be daunting, but Malik is too used to guards, and more dangerous ones at that, to notice.

The room he enters now is long and wide and dark, the few windows blocked by red fabric, the low ceiling beams leaving little room for light. There's a carpet on the floor, a jumble of messy red and brown stitching. There's a door on the far wall, and a wooden staircase lifting into the gloom. In a corner is a low table and some cushions thrown about. There's only one other person here besides the guard and Malik: a youngish woman, dressed normally enough in blue robes. But there are bangles heaped around her wrists and ankles, too showy for most. Painted toenails peek out from heeled slippers. A silver charm hangs on a string about her neck.

More than any of that, her hair is uncovered. It falls at her back in a thick tangle of brown rivulets, shining even in the bad light, surely not as soft to the touch as it looks. Malik tries to look at her face, her clothing, anything else—but these things he's seen before, and uncovered hair on a woman is so unusual he can't help but be curious. It strikes him then, how bothersome it must be to be female and constantly confined. Altair is always ducking behind his cowl, and Malik is always fighting the urge to rip the damned thing off and force his face into the open. _Stop hiding_, he wants to say. _Look me in the eye when we fight._

The woman glances up and sees him standing there, awkward despite his attempt to look suave. She reaches for a cup of tea on the table and drinks with her lips curved into a smile, her manicured hands wrapped around the glass.

Malik wonders if he should say something. But what? Rauf made it sound as if all he had to do was walk inside: from there the ladies and his own body would figure it out. What to say to a fallen woman? _Hello, excuse me, safety and peace_? Probably he can say whatever he wants, because after all he's a paying customer. Only he's not paying. And at the moment he doesn't trust his still-new adult voice not to crack…

The woman puts the glass down and glides to her feet, still smiling. Brushing out a wrinkle on her skirt she says, "Another new assassin this month? My, my. How fortunate for both of us."

Malik says, "I brought my swor—my weapons with me. Is that alright?"

"Normally we wouldn't allow it. But normally we'd also expect payment." The woman's voice isn't quite the bird's lilt Rauf said all whores had, but it's gentle enough. Mostly she just seems amused. "Things work differently for men of the Brotherhood. Next time the mobs come with rocks you'll be the ones we turn to."

"Does that happen often?"

"More these days. All this war…uncertain men are frightened men, and frightened men are pious."

"And pious men hate brothels."

"Not as you'd think," she chuckles. "They slink in at night is all."

At this point Malik realizes he's discussing religion with a whore and suspects something's gone wrong. For one thing, they're both still fully dressed. "Do, um. Do you mind that I can't pay you? They haven't given me any money yet."

"Assassin," she replies, "it is an honor to assist the Order. There isn't a woman here who hasn't turned to them for help before. And speaking of women, there are three others around if you'd like to choose…"

"It's Malik. I mean, my name is Malik. Choose? I'm the one who-…er, how…?"

"You've just turned of age, I see." Another laugh. "In a year you won't need to ask that."

Malik is finding it hard to meet this woman's gaze. He has so little experience talking directly to women, and looking right into their eyes! Meanwhile she is, while quite pretty, not as exotic as he'd assumed. When she comes closer he can see small wrinkles stretched at the corners of her eyes and lips. Her cheeks and bare arms are lightly freckled. Where is the mystic goddess-woman, adept in teaching ignorant sixteen-year-olds how to make love? Are the other women any different?

"Malik, why don't we go upstairs? You can take your weapons off where they'll be safe."

He glances around, caught in indecision. Where is the allure of this? Where is the delight? No wonder Altair hated it, standing in this dark room with this woman, this whore with tired eyes. Forced to show tenderness to strangers, to _female_ strangers…no, he mustn't have liked this at _all_.

The woman has one slippered foot on the bottom step. "Coming? I know you'll have to be in a rush to get back."

But it would be premature to follow her. Something isn't right. "What's your name? I already told you mine."

That smile again. "Does it matter what mine is?"

"You're not just some streetwalker. You serve the Brotherhood, kinda, and I'm good with names."

"Nura," she says, and then looks startled. "Oh," she says, bringing her hand to her mouth in surprise. "I even forgot to lie."

Malik feels a little better as he follows her upstairs. Once there, he…

Once there, standing in a narrow hallway lined with three doors, Nura takes his arm and pulls him into the first room on the left. Her touch is light; she does smell a bit like flowers. Inside he has time for a quick glance, sees a large bed with heavy covers and a red-curtained window, sees some flowers in a vase and another ugly rug on the floor—

Then Nura comes to him and caresses his shoulders, first above the cloth and then under. Her breath is soft against his neck when she leans in. He stands rather stiff with the new sensation of being kissed by a woman: her lips trailing against his jaw, down his neck. She kneels, her hands sliding against his waist until they find where his sword is strapped. He says breathlessly, "Careful, it's…"

"Don't worry," Nura soothes. "You aren't my first assassin."

Malik flushes and lets her work.

Her nimble fingers remove his sword, remove every throwing knife, pull off his cowl and tunic and boots, until he's standing in leggings and bare skin. But then she reaches up to her ears to pull off her earrings, and knowing what comes next Malik instinctively looks away. He's never seen a naked woman before, and doesn't even want to imagine the sorts of things they wear _under_ their clothes. He senses more than sees the pause as Nura studies his reaction; his face doesn't feel overly flushed, but his stance suggests more fighting than foreplay.

She goes back to caressing him, touching his chest, tilting his head so that he's looking at her. Thanks to a recent growth spurt he's taller than her by an inch or two, saving some potential embarrassment. (Of course Altair is a few inches taller than he. Why should that be a surprise?) "It _is_ your first time," Nura breathes. "I wasn't sure. Sometimes at your age they've had women already." She caresses and murmurs…

And even ignorant Malik knows his reaction, physical or otherwise, is underwhelming. Annoyed at his body's disinterest he tells her, "I don't know what I'm doing. I wasn't sure I should even come here."

Nura pulls back, just a bit, and studies him with her forehead wrinkling. Something strange, some unexpected wariness, comes into her expression, but it fades. Malik doesn't know why his heart is suddenly beating in his throat. Finally, she says, "You're young and inexperienced. Sometimes it takes longer to wake up. It might take a while for you to enjoy it. I'll have to work hard." She brings him close again, sighs in his ear, "It doesn't have to mean anything. You shouldn't start to worry."

Malik is about to ask her _what_, exactly, he shouldn't start to worry about. But then Nura reaches down and strokes _there_, above his leggings but between his legs, and he loses most coherent thought. A few seconds and he is surprised to find himself leaning into her hand, groaning just a bit; his body twitches and moves of its own need. Nura smiles at him, her face so lovely, framed by her hair.

Something in him does wake up, then. He groans again, presses his hands against her as she works and suddenly—suddenly he isn't at all concerned with what women wear underneath their robes, only that he hopes Nura takes _that_ off too. She takes him by the elbow to pull him over to the bed, but he hardly needs her guidance with his hungry body barking orders.

Malik follows Nura onto the bed and stays there for quite some time, losing himself, losing his doubts, too young to tell when he's clumsy, not even _himself_ enough to notice whether the sheets are rough cloth or silk beneath his naked limbs.

* * *

AN: This is a really intelligent fandom, for which I am glad. If it were any other fandom I'd probably get someone demanding to know why there's all this het in a homo fic, because eeeww, "and I thot u said this wuz a M/A fic so if Malik's gay why'z he sleepin wit wimin?111!" I'd then have to explain how it isn't always that simple, how there are more choices than just Heterosexual, Homosexual, or Bisexual, how people don't fit neatly into categories and how someone who prefers men could still be aroused by a woman. I'd also have to point out cultural differences and time periods and how Malik isn't 'coming out of the closet' because he doesn't realize there's a closet to come out of and no, there will never be a point in this fic where he decides He's Gay. He has already realized how wrapped up in Altair he is and there will be a time where that emotional connection turns physical. Call that what you will. I like to think he did enjoy himself with Nura, for a bit.

But this is an intelligent fandom. So I'm not worried.

**10/6/12: minor edits**


	12. Part One: Chapter Eleven

AN: Can you tell I was afraid to write the actual fight scene? They spend so much time arguing I think the Crusades ended. Also, random aside, but I love—really—how the fandom has blithely decided that Kadar was young and adorable when he died, game graphics be damned. All the fanart makes him look sixteen and that's…

That's so tragic. Kadar nooo.

With this chapter starts the last arc for the first part. Not that the fic is being put on hiatus or is anywhere near finished! Speaking of words, the last chunk of text here is actually a half-thought-out fantard rant regarding canon backstory vs head-canon backstory. Ignore it by all means.

* * *

_**Rules for Revenge**_

The wind gusting past is chilly, and the hay makes for a rough landing. But the beauty of a perfect leap is worth the minor discomforts.

Some weeks after Malik's visit to the prostitute Nura, he stands on the roof of one of Masyaf's sagging buildings and bends slightly at the knees. A good distance below him is a cart filled and forgotten with rotting hay, sitting in a little square divided by an old stone wall. This house was built right against the mountain, and is never fully out of shadow as a result, so there's nothing in the way of trees or grass. Only the hay gives some color to the grey of the little hidden courtyard—the hay, and the flash of red-on-white as Malik leaps for the cart.

He's gotten good at leaps of faith, enjoys practicing, enjoys the rush and the precision. Altair, for all his trickery, gets impatient with any move he can't instantly master, but for Malik half the fun of training is in picking apart every bad detail. It's because of this that he's learned how to perform his dives so much quicker than the rest of the assassins his age: again and again he climbs the old buildings, fingers catching at windowsills and pockmarked plaster until the tips are sore and bleeding. Again and again he plummets downwards at just the right angle, facing his landing, braced for the split second of pain as he hits a surface not meant to be struck head-on. But the pain is nothing, is part of the point.

An assassin easily dazed is an assassin easily killed. The Creed requires many things from its followers, but it does not demand long lives.

Today is a day sunk into a grey haze, and most of Masyaf is indoors. The market is quiet and the benches empty. This is a good day for leaps of faith, because usually when Malik jumps, he pops up for air only to find a crowd of curious farmers and merchants watching.

("It defeats the whole point if they _see_ you," Altair scoffed once, and dived so cleanly the cart didn't creak when he landed. Malik, in a fit of pique, jumped too soon after, before the other boy had a chance to climb out. He landed practically on top of Altair, and it was only the relatively small distance that saved the embarrassing collision from turning into something bloody. As it was Malik found himself so tangled with a furious Altair that for a minute he couldn't separate his limbs.

For a minute they lay there, sprawled out in the hay cart, chest to chest. Malik almost commented on the sudden ache in his gut, but before he could Altair was swearing and smacking at him. "Get off. Get _up_, Malik."

"Sorry," he mumbled, and pulled himself free.)

But today there aren't any crowds to worry about, and when he surfaces from the hay it's to nothing but a loose piece of wood banging somewhere in the wind. High above comes the shrill cry of an eagle, one of many which nest in the surrounding mountains. Malik is used to them and to the way the Brotherhood finds so much imagery in birds of prey; still, he had to roll his eyes the first time he heard Al Mualim refer to Altair as the 'fledgling eagle of Masyaf'. _Please_.

He pulls himself out of the cart and bends to brush himself off. A shadow falls across his feet but he assumes it's from all the fog. It's only when the shadow darkens into human shape that he looks up and sees Altair.

"You have hay in your hair."

Malik reaches up and feels a piece of straw sticking between the dark strands. He pulls it out and lets it waft to the ground. "What is it? Come to mock my jumps again?"

But for once Altair doesn't rise to the challenge, his gaze measured and even. "We need to talk," he says.

"So." Malik shrugs one shoulder. "Talk."

"Not here. Somewhere more private."

"Altair, there's no one here."

"There are always assassins lurking around. There are a few guarding the main road right now, and the wind will bring them every word."

"Are you planning to betray the Brotherhood? What does it matter if they hear what you say?"

"Just come with me," the other boy insists. "I'll explain when we're alone."

Malik sighs. Typical Altair: everything with him has to be of such importance. He still won't talk about his adventure at the brothel, still treats it as if it were some mission to struggle through. And he hasn't gone back in the weeks since, either. Then again, neither has Malik; he leaves that up to Rauf, who goes once a week at least and has lost practically the whole bottom of his face to the beard he thinks adds maturity. Malik still hasn't figured out what, exactly, his own body was trying to tell him in Nura's embrace—though it was an enjoyable lesson, something about it felt off. He'll have to wait until his body 'wakes up', as Nura put it, or else there's something really messed up with him and he'll just have to avoid brothels forever. He wouldn't be the first assassin not to marry, for whatever reason.

(If there's something wrong with him, it's not inborn. Kadar has not only been asking Rauf detailed questions on what to try when, he's started a _list_.)

"Well? Are you going to come with me or not?"

"Calm down, will you?" Malik rubs at the back of the head again, considering. There's still straw stuck in his hair and thanks to all the climbing he's done his tunic is clinging to his chest with sweat, despite the cool weather. "I need to go wash off anyway. Let's go to the river, no one will be there in this weather. It'll be nice and _private_ for you."

"_Tamaam_," says Altair, though his dour tone suggests he doesn't find the choice perfect at all. Malik ignores him and begins to walk.

Though Al Masyaf sits far above the river, there's a small path down the craggy side of the mountain that goes all the way down, ending at a narrow strip of rocky beach. The path is steep, the haphazard steps barely big enough for a footfall and worn smooth from innumerable years of use. Thanks to the height, the fog, the water below, the stone stairs are wet and slippery even on hot days, even when there hasn't been rain for weeks. Because of this, and because the start of the path is a crevice in the mountain across from the gates into the fortress, no one save for assassins ever uses it. Most villagers aren't aware it exists, and those who do know avoid it for fear of falling: one misstep would lead to a long fall, a failed leap of faith with a messy ending.

Malik is sure of his footing as he scrambles down the long climb only because he by now possesses the assassin's slinking poise. Treacherous as the path may be, his gait is steady and quick. Behind him, Altair follows without a trace of fear. They reach the little beach, water brushing at its edge, and if Altair is struck the same at being _surrounded_ so, he doesn't say.

Probably only Malik notices how silly they are, scrawny figures hidden between canyon walls. The river could swallow them whole if it chose. The mountains could collapse and crush them both. It strikes him now as it has not struck him since his hungry, wandering days: the world around them is unaffected and unconcerned, by their deaths and lives and what suffering occurs between the two.

Altair doesn't look as though he notices any of this. Unlike Malik, he's always been so sure of his strength to mold the world around him. He's more taken to great heights, because from high above he can stretch wide his arms and pretend to own it all. Malik doesn't trust height quite as much, for all that he sometimes seeks it out. He doesn't trust himself not to fall.

He's still sweating, the cool air not enough to counter the strenuous climb down, and without much thought he strips himself down to leggings only, leaving his tunic and sash in a pile with his boots. His sword and daggers (six of them now, because he's shown such skill—throwing knives seems natural to him, seems a deadlier extension of the rocks Kadar used to collect) he leaves in their own pile, farther away from water's edge. Altair watches him undress, silent, arms folded. When Malik glances at him he pulls back behind the cowl, hiding his eyes.

The water is cool, but it feels nice against his flushed skin. He splashes in, and almost instantly his feet lose the ground. A few months ago an older assassin, who'd lived in the port city of Acre as a child, had shown him how to swim; Malik ducks under, not used to submerging so totally yet, and then pops up into an ungainly sort of backfloat with his limbs flailing about. He thinks of his swimming tutor, who'd rounded up some of the novices out of boredom one hot day in between assignments. As Nasr ducked Raed and Rauf dragged his half-drowned self from the bottom of the lake while swearing never to leave dry earth again, the assassin spoke to the A-Sayf brothers of home.

His family, he said while treading water easily, had fled Acre during one of the Crusader Army's many attempts to wrest it from the controlling Saracens, and though the blockade was later broken they chose to stay in Masyaf. "Acre," he said, "has hardly seen a day of peace in twenty years, it careens from siege to siege while the armies take turns at destruction. There was a busy market there once…merchants from all over. But the market was in pieces by the time I was born. We'd bury our dead and the infidels would dig them back up to desecrate the graves." He sighed. "But we did the same to their dead, too."

He described Acre as it exists today: a miserable place, always fog-drenched, always cold. A couple years ago the Crusaders had broken in—Malik remembers the excited novice-chatter of the world at war and what it meant for them. Later, though, most of the city was retaken by Muslim forces, in a drawn-out and bloody battle that left thousands dead. The assassin bureau survived only because there were enough assassins there to scare off the various rioting mobs. What of the city was left fell into the hands of a group of Saracen generals no less murderous or corrupt than their Christian counterparts had been. Probably the Crusaders will march in again before the year is out.

So, the assassin said, Acre is a fallen city. The once-crowded _souk _has been abandoned for years. The port has seen so many blockades there are hardly any boats left, though the Crusaders are eager to change that should they conquer it for good. Nothing is rebuilt to last: mosques are torn down and replaced with churches, which are burned down in turn, so that spires and minarets crumble into one another and the molding stone decays. The great cathedral in the center square, a distant relic of calmer times when the city could harbor multiple religions in relative peace, has lost one of its heavy spires. The poor districts are horrors, filthy and rat-ridden, a stinking mash of drunks and beggars and lepers with weeping sores. The last time the Crusaders came through, they brought with them half a thousand civilians as if to further claim the land; now there are Christians and Muslims trapped together in the wreck, killing each other when the armies aren't around to do it first.

There had been Christians living there before the wars, Christians and even some Jews, surviving quite happily in a majority-Muslim city. But by now those original Christians are long gone, or else long dead. Most of the original Muslims are as well, and there are hardly any Jews left in that whole section of coast. The English citizens following the Crusaders in have no memory of what Acre was, and no desire to be neighbors with heretics. The Muslims following the Saracens feel exactly the same. And so there are Christmas riots, and _Eid_ riots: men preach hate in front of the great cathedral, garbage blocks the streets and befouls the wells, bodies are left to fester in the grime.

Acre, the port city…another place Al Mualim's Brotherhood has been unable to protect. Malik knew better than to ask if the assassin from Acre ever planned on returning home.

He bobs in the water now, looking up at the overcast sky. The river's current is mild this close to the shore, though further out it would overpower his feeble attempts at escape. Altair, still on land with his arms folded, prods at the water with one foot and frowns when it darkens the leather of his boot.

Malik calls, "Are you going to come in?"

"Of course not. Come _out_ so we can talk."

"I can hear you fine from here." He does splash a bit closer, though, to the edge of the drop-off, his feet just barely touching bottom. "So what is it already? What's this great secret of yours?"

The other boy regards him without speaking. Malik's less-than-serious tone is obviously not suiting Altair's need to be taken as seriously as can be.

"_Shoofi mafi_? What's wrong with you now?"

Finally Altair says, "We're sixteen, we're journeymen, and I can disarm assassins twice my age."

"Lovely."

"And you're fast with those throwing knives. I've seen you use them. You don't even have to look at your target before you aim."

"Altair, what is your _point_?"

"The Master should send us out on a mission," says Altair. "We're more than ready. More than willing."

Malik frowns, pushing away from the drop-off to go back to treading water. "I would agree with you. But Al Mualim is the one who decides when we're ready."

"I know that. And I trust his judgment. But he's been busy lately, and there are a lot of novices. We need to prove ourselves to him."

"Which we'll do when he sends us out."

Altair bursts out, "But we could be of use to him _now_!" He leans forwards, speaking rapidly, hands gesturing his excitement, still careful to keep his feet from getting wet. "I've spoken with him recently. I've seen the stresses he carries. And no wonder, when most of his Order is useless. _We're_ not useless. And if we help him now we'll…"

"We'll what?" asks Malik. "Receive his praise?" _You're too strong to humble yourself, Brother. You of all people shouldn't have to trick the Master into giving you what you've already earned. _

"I'm tired of polishing weapons for others to use. I know you are as well." Altair's eyes glint beneath the cowl. He hisses, "Why should I leave the fighting to the others, when I am so much _better_?"

"As much as it hurts me to admit this, you're right. But what does it matter? We can't control Al Mualim's decisions. We don't get to decide when to make our first kills. Look, maybe he has a reason. We're good at practice-fighting but who knows what it's really like? Killing a Templar must be harder than talking about killing one."

Altair looks at him again. Malik begins to think his words have actually broken through his friend's dense skull. All this moaning of missions and misuse is pointless. They can't send themselves out on assignment, after all.

Then Altair says in a calculating voice, "I know why they killed _Dai_ Faraj."

The effect is instant. Malik stiffens, his open hands hitting the surface of the water with twin smacks that leave his palms stinging. "Shut up. I don't want to talk about that."

But Altair is insistent. "Al Mualim asked for me the other day. He likes me to watch his interactions with the other leaders since I'll probably be his successor," he says, and because it's Altair speaking it's arrogant but not a lie. "I heard what he said to the new leader of the Jerusalem bureau. The mission your _Dai _was on, it…"

Malik smacks at the water again. "I don't care! I don't care what he was doing, because he didn't do it and he died."

"Oh, stop sulking." And Malik is so taken aback he has no retort on his tongue. "What good will your anger do alone? Instead of being useless you could put that anger to good use."

"And how should I do that? Since you are apparently all-knowing, maybe you could explain."

"I heard them talking," Altair says again. "Faraj went to deal with a traitor but also to see what that traitor knew. He'd been befriending Templars, important ones, and learning their secrets as he went. The Master wanted Faraj to see what the Templars knew about…"

"About what?"

"I don't-…they were vague on that."

"They were _vague_," Malik mimics. "You don't know, you mean."

Altair snaps, "There was a list. I don't know what it consisted of, the Master didn't say. But he did say that he thought the Templars had it, and he thought the traitor might be able to say where they were keeping it. Whatever the list consists of doesn't matter. It's important for Al Mualim that we assassins have it back."

"So?" Malik looks down at his body, distorted and rippling beneath the water. "Did they have it? Did the traitor know where it was?"

"Yes. _Dai_ Faraj was able to send word of its location. He would have gone to steal it himself but he was discovered before he could."

"Discovered? He was _stabbed_."

"Yes." Altair's face is impassive. As ever the Son of None avoids the emotion of personal ties. "He was killed. The list remains in Templar hands."

"How sad. What do you suppose is on this mythical list? Names of people to execute? Of villages to burn down? Perhaps the Templars simply want to keep track of what to buy at market!"

Malik rants a bit longer, using all the sarcasm he has, but it's hard to maintain the bile in the face of Altair's passive unconcern. Eventually, worn out, he pulls himself out of the water and sits dripping on shore, knees drawn to his chest. "I don't care why they killed _Dai_ Faraj. He's dead. And Al Mualim has done nothing about it that I can see."

"Exactly."

"Exactly what? Stop talking in circles."

Altair kneels down beside him. "Malik, I know where the list is. The new bureau leader told Al Mualim as much while I was there. It's in an army encampment, just a few days ride from here if you take the right trails. We could steal it and return to Masyaf before anyone knew we were gone—less than three days' hard riding. Imagine how awed even the Master would be. How grateful. Imagine the honor…"

"You're mad." Malik gives a tight shake of his head. "We can't go on a mission without orders. Even Master Assassins have to wait for permission."

"It won't be difficult. You and I can handle this on our own."

"That's not the point! We can't just go sauntering around making up our own rules. That goes against the Creed and you know it."

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

'"And who are you that you should decide the fates of your Brothers? Only the Grandmaster has proven himself worthy.' Have you forgotten? They make you memorize that practically the first _day_."

"We aren't deciding the fates of the others. We're avenging the fates that have already befallen them."

"There's no difference. The Master would call it treason. He'd kick us out from the Order, unless he decided to kill us for traitors instead."

"Not when he sees we accomplished what grown men failed to do. When he sees we did what even a _Dai_ couldn't, he'll be proud."

"If _Dai_ Faraj couldn't steal this list, you can't," Malik says coldly. "He was far wiser than you."

Altair, still kneeling, leans forward and grabs him by the shoulders. He stiffens but doesn't pull away as the older boy lowers his voice, eyes alight. There's a taut eagerness in his position, in the way his fingers dig into Malik's bare skin, in the rare smile stretching his mouth.

_He's enjoying this. _Malik suppresses a small shiver and blames it on the breeze.

"We can do this," says Altair. "We can find that list and the Master will be impressed, not angry. Not when he sees how we've proven ourselves to him. How could he call us traitors? True assassins are so eager to assist they strike whenever they see the chance. Think of it, Malik. Think of how astonished your brother would be."

"Like you care what Kadar thinks." Malik tilts his head away from Altair's closeness, away from the hot breath spilling out across his face. He is suddenly very aware of the lack of distance between them, and the lack of clothing he's wearing.

"I don't. You do. Kadar would be so relieved to know how skilled you are. How capable you are of protecting him." There's nowhere else for Malik to go when Altair leans even closer in, their faces mere inches apart. Without meaning to, without wanting to, Malik lets his eyes meet Altair's: he rarely gets this chance to see them directly and he almost flinches back from the burning intensity in them now. They aren't the eyes of a sixteen year old assassin-in-training—they're the eyes of someone older, something meaner, the eyes of a vulture scavenging for carrion with outstretched and filthy wings.

"These Templars are the ones who killed Faraj," Altair says. "This is our chance to kill _them_. You can avenge your _Dai_, Malik. You can seek revenge for what you've lost."

There is, Malik A-Sayf knows, a rule in the Creed against seeking revenge. But there is also a fresh grave in which _Dai _Faraj's body rots. There is also a scarred spit of land, once a village, where the bodies were burned into too fine an ash for any graves at all. There's a little brother who can't remember what his parents looked like but has nightmares of their faces anyway. There's energy spiking through his naked flesh where Altair is holding him, staring at him with those feverish eyes.

There is a rule against seeking revenge. But Malik is angry, and because he is angry he agrees to Altair's plan.

_-i-_

They creep out from the fortress two nights later: the three of them, Malik and Altair and Kadar bringing up the rear. Altair had protested against telling Kadar at all, had complained that the younger A-Sayf's chatty mouth would ruin everything before it began, but on this Malik was firm. He wasn't about to lie to his brother regarding his whereabouts. Besides, telling someone else was unavoidable.

"Kadar's the lookout," he said. "Someone has to be able to cover for us while we're gone. Assuming you're right about where this list is, we should be able to get there and back in a few days. Three at the most. Which is good because, as I'm _sure_ you've bothered to remember, after three days Al Mualim will know we've left without permission, since journeymen aren't supposed to be gone for any longer. _Some_ people don't seem to care that journeymen have to ask _permission_ before they leave…"

"Yes, yes," Altair had huffed, impatient. "We still don't need to tell him anything. We'll be back within three days, I told you already."

"You're usually wrong. If you're wrong about this then Kadar will be able to tell Al Mualim where we've gone. It's backup, Altair."

"I am not _usually wrong_. And your brother will tell half the Brotherhood two hours in!"

"He better not," Malik said, "because if the Master finds out what we're doing before we do it, we're dead." For this Altair had no comeback. He glowered instead.

Now, in the grey light of just-breaking dawn, Malik's emotions find themselves tempered by sober reasoning. They really are in trouble if they're caught sneaking out; to be declared a traitor to the Order is to forfeit more than just rank and weapons. Kadar's worried eyes as he follows them through the sleeping village attests to that. But there's no help for it now, Malik can't back down from a promise he's already made. It'd really be a disaster if Altair went by himself!

The shadows are thicker at this hour, and the wooden gates look almost threatening. The guards don't say anything, but still Malik feels uneasy as he saddles a horse resting just outside the stable. His mount is a brown gelding he's ridden before, one he knows can handle long distances on rocky ground. The white horse Altair is preparing is a skittish creature, not necessarily the best choice, but it's a gorgeous creature with a flowing mane. As per usual Altair cares more for dramatics, confident in his ability to manage anything. (Malik makes a silent decision not to rescue him if the horse starts bucking. Animals tend to tolerate Altair at best, and really he should know that by now.)

He gives the bridle a final adjustment and turns back to Kadar, who's lurking just past the gates so that the guards won't call him back in. "Wait, Malik," the younger boy says, eyes anxious beneath the cowl. "Are you sure you have to go? A whole army encampment…there must be a hundred soldiers there…"

"I can't let that idiot go on his own," says Malik. "And he'd go no matter what I did. It's fine. Al Mualim should have sent us out by now anyway."

"But a whole army camp!"

"The main Crusader armies are closer to Acre than here. It'll be a small group."

"If you say so."

Malik smiles. "Come on. You know I can fight."

"Oh, I know, I'm sure you'll be fine." Kadar smiles back. "You'll kill a dozen men and capture a dozen more."

"I like the sound of that. A dozen personal servants. Finally someone else can clean all that armor!"

"Does the Brotherhood allow for servants?"

"Probably not. Who needs 'em when you have so many novices around."

"_I'm_ not a servant."

"Of course not." Malik reaches out, and knuckles his brother's shoulder gently, kneading at the skin a bit with his closed fist. "Anyone tries to order you around, come find me."

Kadar squints at him. "So you can hit them?" he asks. "Like when you hit Nasr? I can throw my own punches, you know."

"I know, I know. But Nasr's the closest thing we've got to a Templar around here, so—"

"Will you hurry up? _Malik_." Altair is gripping the reins and ready, leaning forward on his horse as if about to lurch into a gallop. The horse tosses its head and strikes a hoof at the ground, but Malik has to admit the assassin looks impressive up there, sitting steady in the saddle with the wind rippling at his tunic's hem. "Stop chatting," he says. "We're on a mission now."

"If you think you're going to be barking orders at me this whole trip, I'll throw you into the river." But Malik does climb onto his mount. Edgy anticipation courses through him: despite himself, he is excited. Finally he will confront the Templars and the bastards who support them. Finally _he_ will be the one bursting from the dusty horizon, sword drawn, bearing down on those who would do him and his brother harm.

He rides to kill and he thinks he should be at least a little apprehensive. But he isn't. Not at all.

"Safety and peace," says Kadar, looking up at him now. "Be careful, Brothers."

"We'll be back before three days are up, so keep your mouth shut," Altair orders. "We don't need you sounding an unnecessarily alarm."

"I'll wait by the bend in the road up ahead. Where that bit of land sticks out over the water. They won't mind me leaving the village if I don't go too far. And I won't tell anyone where you've gone, either."

"See that you don't." Altair turns his horse away.

"Careful," says Kadar again, quietly. Malik shoots him a quick smile as he nudges his own horse.

"Safety and peace," he says. In front of him Altair kicks his heels and the horse bolts; Malik gallops after, losing sight of Kadar as they round the road's first bend.

_-i-_

The ground is rough and hilly for a while; then it opens up, though the next mountain is never far. They pass small clusters of villages, thin trickling streams, another old watchtower recently claimed by the assassins after a Saracen retreat. There are other travelers on the road, mostly by the houses, and the land doesn't look too badly battle-scarred. Malik allows himself to hope that perhaps the war is calming down. Perhaps the Crusaders will leave and the Saracens will rid themselves of their corruption and the assassins can stop playing guard dog to both sides and go back to their true aim, that of killing Templars. (Malik has no doubt that the Templars and their mysterious plans will linger even if the war was to end tomorrow. He's glad for this. From now until the end of time he will be able to avenge.)

For the first few hours Altair rides ahead, faster than necessary, unconcerned for anyone who might be traveling on foot. Malik, less interested in running down innocent bystanders, moves slower and enjoys the breeze. How easy it is to travel on horseback. How quickly he and Kadar could have found Masyaf if they'd known.

The pace slows, though, as the path peters out into a wide expanse crammed with houses and wooden guard towers. In the center is another stone watchtower, much the same as the ones the assassins have taken, with the exception of the guards at its base. They wear brown, not white, and instead of merely watchful they look bored and cruel.

Saracens have no love for assassins, but Altair lets his horse trot as if he means to brush right past them. Despite his better judgment Malik follows, fuming with the indignity: is he to die because Altair's so foolhardy he thinks he can rush a dozen well-armed men? They near closer and closer, two assassins with swords, on horses more expensive than anyone in this village could afford. Any minute now an arrow is going to come whizzing past his ear…

Malik decides that his friend has lost his mind, finally, and tries to decide between leaving him to his messy fate or knocking him off the horse before anyone sees them. Just as he's settling on option two (with an addendum that if the guards do notice he'll offer up the idiot as a bribe), Altair tugs the reins. At the last second they skirt the watchtower and end up in a narrow warren of shacks and people, the street not wide enough for them to ride without earning dirty looks.

Altair slides off his horse and leans against a crumbling wall. Malik dismounts in sullen silence. The villagers, wary of strangers with swords and dashing mounts, vanish quickly. Though the street is narrow none of the houses are taller than a single story, and he can see the watchtower rising up to his left.

"Hide your sword and keep your face covered," says Altair. "We'll walk the horses past the guards."

"Is that all we'll do?" Malik, still angry at the close call, fiddles with his horse's saddle so he doesn't have to look up. "Did you not want to charge right up to them and take them all on at once? Perhaps with your bare hands? Maybe we could _climb_ the damn tower and wait until they run out of arrows!"

As per usual Altair is unmoved by Malik's snarling. "We'd win if we tried," he says, "but we don't want to alert the Templars to our presence. Wiping the area of enemy troops is difficult to do in stealth."

"You wouldn't understand _stealth_ if you were a Master Assassin. They should never have made you more than a novice."

"We've only a few more hours until we reach the camp. We could move quickly there or we could argue and waste time."

"I don't think you realize how difficult it is _not_ to argue with you."

"You didn't have to come."

"You asked me to come. Next time ask Rauf and save me the aggravation."

Altair's eyes flicker, or maybe it's just an errant shadow in the road. "Next time I'll ask you," he says.

Malik is so flustered he almost stumbles when his horse steps away to graze through a patch of weeds. "I-…by the way, how can there be a Crusader camp so close to a Saracen-held village?"

"Not just Crusaders. They'll have a Templar or two with them."

"That only makes less sense. The front lines are fifty miles north of here."

Altair makes a little grimace. "It isn't so simple. There are gaps…" He waves a hand. "Your village was in Saracen land, wasn't it? But the Crusaders came through anyway. There are Templars in Jerusalem, even if the rest of the Christians are having trouble getting inside."

Malik mutters, "Like rats. Like disease."

"So we'll end the plague before it spreads. We should keep moving, Malik. Raise your cowl."

(He is surprised to find, as they move out, that Altair is actually very good at stealth when he feels a need for it. That their robes are tinged with hours' worth of riding along bad roads helps; they drift from the village looking like ordinary apprentices, poor peasant stock off to train as blacksmiths or else just work in the fields and produce half a dozen kids apiece. Ordinary. Not worth attention, though hidden in their robes are swords and daggers cut deadly-sharp.

That Altair can pass for _ordinary_ is the greatest surprise of all.)

_-i-_

The hours that follow are long. To be on a mission, a first one, an _unauthorized_ one, should be anything but boring, and yet Malik's biggest concern at the moment is how stiff he is from all the riding. Altair is to his right, a few steps ahead, hunched over the reins with his cowl drawn low to block his face. Malik half-suspects he's sleeping.

The sun is low in the sky by now. The horses, even Malik's docile mount, are acting out their exhaustion by being skittish. The road is wide but empty here, no sign of life but for the bushes and stunted trees growing alongside. Strange, that so much of the world is so empty. All the time required to get from city to mission to Masyaf…all this time to ride in silence. The quiet of the world makes his thoughts louder in his ears and he marvels, how difficult must it be for an assassin to travel by himself? With only his memories and musings, and no solace from either should the thoughts turn sour? He almost shudders to imagine a Master Assassin, hands wet with the blood spilt over the years, body hunched with the great loss they all seem to carry, forced to keep himself company for weeks at a time.

How frightening. How lonely.

"Malik," says Altair suddenly. He's stopped his horse, and stands up in the saddle to peer at the road ahead. It bends, hiding whatever comes next from view, but without the horses to hide the sound Malik thinks he can hear voices.

(And he looks at his companion, at his urgent, narrow-eyed focus, and sees the eagle's grace in him, in his long fingers as they tug at the reins.)

"Come on. We'll go back and leave the horses where they won't give us away."

"It's them?" Malik whispers. "You're sure?"

"I saw where Al Mualim marked the list's location on his map. This is where the camp is. They mean to block off the area from Saracen patrols."

Malik frowns. "So close. Why has Al Mualim allowed these Templars to come so close to us? If he needed the list so badly why not send someone to get it? Any assassin in the fortress could make it this far in a day."

"Assassins don't question the Master's will, we only help him carry it out."

"Then what," Malik wonders, "are we doing here?" But Altair is leading his horse towards a gnarled tree with a thick ring of bushes at its base, and doesn't hear him.

_-i-_

They argue over the best plan of attack, and the argument turns ugly fast. Malik favors studying the camp with what daylight is left, memorizing it as best they can, planning escape routes and estimating the number of soldiers within. Hopefully by the time nightfall comes they will have some understanding of where the list might be; they can sneak in and steal it, avoiding much of a fight in the process, and then flee before the whole camp is roused. But Altair would rather not wait, and isn't troubled by the idea of being found out early.

"We'll hack our way through them until we find what we've come for," he says, and won't be persuaded to see the fatal flaws in this plan.

_Stealth_, Malik argues, and _common sense_. "Even if there are only a dozen men there—are we supposed to fend off six armed soldiers apiece? We don't need to put ourselves at risk with unnecessary killing…"

"They're Templars. It can't be unnecessary." Altair eyes him. "Are you afraid you'll have trouble killing them? Afraid to take a life? Tell me, Malik, did you come with me all this way only to let your teacher's killers live?"

"Fine," says Malik, when he can speak. "Fine, you idiot. We'll be loud as can be. But we aren't going until it gets dark and we aren't wasting time once we're there. Once we have the list we're going, I don't care who we haven't killed. Finishing his mission will be enough to honor the _Dai."_

"I'll beat the list's location out of one of the guards. It won't take long, and we won't alert every soldier to our presence even if you think we will. But we won't creep around as cowards, either."

Malik says, wearily, "Assassins are supposed to creep."

But maybe Altair is right. Maybe the mission won't be as difficult as it sounds: when they go to investigate their target, lurking from behind a large boulder just past where the road bends, they discover they aren't facing a full patrol. There are six or so tents, the greasy material patched and fraying, clustered about a much larger and cleaner tent set up right in the middle of the road. Some logs have been piled beyond the tents as a makeshift roadblock, though any trained warhorse could jump the barrier easily. (Malik wonders if that isn't the point_. _There aren't any Saracens on warhorses around here. Only peasants. And assassins. _Are they trying to lure us in?)_

Regardless, after an hour of watching they see only five men, all in uniform but all disheveled and dirty. Most are bearded despite the Christian tendency to go without, suggesting a recent hard march with little time or water for shaving. Beards are natural on Arab men, but against these pale faces the hair looks stiff and strange. Malik glances at Altair, trying to picture _him_ with a beard, and has to stifle a chuckle.

"See," the assassin in question says. "I told you. Five men. Almost nothing. Templars travel fast and sudden, they wouldn't lug around a full patrol."

"Six, counting that Templar," Malik points out in a low mutter. The wind is picking up and it might carry their words; luckily the horses are too far behind for the scent to travel. Besides, it must be impossible for these Crusaders to smell anything but their own stink. Have they been going to the bathroom right where they laid their tents? "It could be more than one, even. They could have a whole herd of the bastards in that tent. They're the best trained of anyone besides us—if there are two we're in trouble."

Altair shakes his head, dismissive. "They usually travel alone."

"How would you know?"

"I've heard Al Mualim talk. Some of the Crusaders are suspicious of this mini-army in their midst. They're starting to realize they can't trust Templars any more than they can Saracens. And part of that is because Templars are always off skulking about by themselves. They don't form regiments or organized groups. They lurk—they _creep_ like cowards." He finishes with a triumphant flourish but Malik rolls his eyes.

"The list is probably in that big tent, if it's so important. I still say it's someone's wife's order for the butcher."

"The sentries will know. If the list's not there, they'll tell us where it is."

"Only it's probably there. With the Templar. And thirty of his well-armed friends."

"Be pessimistic if you wish, but don't insult my own abilities. This will be an easy victory." Altair shakes his head again, and straightens up from the crouch he'd been holding. None of the soldiers have noticed them, even though the boulder isn't all that far from their camp. "The Templars have held their victory long enough. Al Mualim should have sent them this warning already, but if he won't then I will."

"Careful," says Malik, "or he'll think you're about to betray him."

It was meant as a joke but Altair whirls on him anyway. "Why would I betray the Master?" he demands. "He runs the Order. Of course I would be loyal."

"I never said you weren't. You'll give us away with all that shouting."

"It's easy for you to mock. To make snide comments as if you're so much better. It's because you don't see." He falls momentarily silent, frowning at his hands, balling them into fists against his sides. When he speaks next he sounds a touch uncertain. "Al Mualim called me into his library last week. He expects me to understand the Order's burdens, though no other journeyman is asked to…" This touch of humility makes Altair sound wise, but very young. His eyes flicker across Malik's face as if he's searching for some answer there.

"The Master has been more distracted lately. He acts as if he's expecting something. And when he called me to his side last week he spoke of what caused the war."

"Religion, land, power and kings. That's always what wars are about."

"No, it's more than that. He said…he explained about freedom, and choice."

Though Malik hides it well he is just the slightest bit impatient. Yes, Al Mualim sometimes calls for Altair Ibn La'Ahad the way _Dai_ Faraj once called for Malik A-Sayf. No doubt Altair gains much from such private tutelage, coming as it does from the Grandmaster of all people. Al Mualim is the only person Altair ever shows any respect, and while the deference is at times sickening, it's not an act. There are sycophants in the Brotherhood, plenty of them—but Altair is not a liar, at least. To talk of this relationship now, though, is out of place. Malik respects the Master, honors his name, would kill to serve his bidding or protect his life…

But the village burned. Faraj is dead. Even Al Mualim is fallible. Not even he is beyond reproach. To hear Altair dredge up the man's name as if it explains everything, solves everything, _replaces_ everything, is supremely irritating. They are here in defiance of the man's will, are they not? So why should the Son of None cling to another's opinions as if they will keep him safe? Where is Altair's bragging confidence?

Malik says, as snide as ever because hearing the confusion in the other's voice is too unsettling to be let alone, "While he was explaining life to you, did he recommend going on missions without permission?"

Altair does his usual hackle, shoulders stiff and eyes flashing. The normal reaction is a relief. "He spoke of that list, for one thing. Of how badly the Brotherhood needs it. That's why we should be the ones to bring him this gift, Malik. It would ease his stress a bit."

"As if you care for anyone's stress. What you like is the hero's welcome you think we're gonna get."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd been in the library that day. The strain was written on his face for all to see. Haven't you seen how his beard is going white like an old man's? He fights to end the war and now we can help."

"Except he isn't fighting the war." Malik sounds bitterer than he realizes. "He let _Dai_ Faraj fight it instead."

Altair jabs a finger at him. "See? You always have to make nasty comments on everything! He's your master as well as mine, but I guess I'm the only one who remembers to be loyal."

"Really…? You think I don't know what loyalty is?"

"What I think is of the Master's needs. If I can make his burden lighter, I will."

_And yet you're always drawing attention to_ yourself._ Always strutting about. _Malik thinks, _You'd fight Templars even if they were unarmed and a crowd of innocents was in your way. I don't know why that doesn't bother me. _

_ You'd shatter the Creed for victory but you'd never go against Al Mualim. Is that hypocrisy or something else?_

Altair turns back towards the horses. He sounds more resentful than angry when he says, "You aren't as loyal as you think. We both know you'd protect Kadar before the Master, if you had to choose."

Malik wants to ask him why _he_ sounds so damned betrayed, if this is about fidelity to the Order and the Creed. Did Altair mean to use his own name, not Al Mualim's?

They walk back quietly, the sharp reality of the mission looming ahead. No point in arguing over tactics or the intelligence of this quest, because the quest is upon them and there isn't room to avoid it.

But all Malik can think, despite how close he is to committing his first real act of violence, is, _After all these years, how can you still sound so surprised? Kadar is my brother. I don't know what _you_ are to me. But I know what you aren't to the Master. You aren't his son, Altair. You don't have any family to your name._

"What _did_ happen when you visited the whorehouse?" he asks on an inspired whim. Somewhere in that question is the answer to the riddle that's existed since they were ten (and a half). The prostitutes, and Kadar, the other boy's weird jealousy…they're tied together, somehow. And that connection feels more important than anything. More important than the mission, than mysterious lists, than revenge.

Altair ignores him.

_-i-_

Despite all the warning signs, or maybe despite the suspicious _lack_ of warning signs, the mission goes well. Almost too well. As they flee the camp Altair struts with his robes fluttering out like a peacock flashing its tail.

It starts well into the night, as they planned. They crouch behind the rock until they're sure there's only the one guard facing them and the two guards in front of the large tent in the center. In their heavy tunics, layered over grey leggings and marked with the cross, they look absurd standing on Syrian dirt. The others must be sleeping because there's no one patrolling out front besides that lone sentry, and he looks half-asleep himself. No sign of any Templars, either. It should all be warning signals but what Malik sees is Faraj's killers sleeping peacefully: _how dare they_? And Altair…

Allah only knows what it is Altair glimpses in the dark.

Bloodshed and glory, probably. The older boy hunches against the rock with his body straining, his lips already stretched wide in a grin. The expression is unnatural on a face usually drawn with harsh lines. Still, it's to be expected. It doesn't matter if it was these exact men who killed one of the assassins' own; the killing was done and now those responsible will pay. Altair twitches his talons and glances at Malik. Malik feels the weight of his sword at his waist and nods.

They leap forward. The dozing sentry hardly has time to fumble his sword before Altair is there to drive his fist into his gut.

The man doubles over, hacking. Altair sends his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick, and Malik puts his sword to the man's throat to keep him quiet once he's down. So easy, it's so _easy_ to knock this soldier down and let him squirm. His face is scratched from where he fell and there's a bit of blood. Malik looks at the red smear and feels dimly hungry, dimly repelled.

"Where is your master?" demands Altair, who's drawn himself to full haughty height. He looks like a fearsome specter with his face hidden, his robes almost glowing in the light of the moon. The soldier stammers, staring up with wide eyes, and Malik has the sudden urge to laugh: they've been hidden less than a minute away for hours, and this 'fearsome Crusader knight' didn't see them at all! For all his presumed training the fool still thinks they're spirits risen from the fog. (It should be another warning sign. It isn't, not for Altair and Malik in all their eager triumph.)

This is what assassins are capable of, then. This is what Malik has inside himself to be.

"Your master," Altair growls again. "Tell us where the Templar soldier is or Malik will slice open your throat."

"_Non, non,_" the soldier babbles. "_Pardon, s'il vous plait."_

"Your master! I won't ask you again."

"_Quoi?"_

Altair moves to kick him, and the man flinches in terrified expectation, but Malik throws out his free hand to stop the other assassin before he can land his strike. "He doesn't speak Arabic, Altair. Just French."

"Then he's of no use to us."

"Put your sword down and stop showing off. Killing those who have surrendered is against the Creed."

"How can he surrender? You just said he doesn't speak Arabic."

Malik rolls his eyes. "He looks pretty surrendered to me. Right?" He looks down at the man. "You give in? _Ne vous_, uh, _capituler? _Surrender and we won't kill you._"_

The horrid attempt at French, so long after the last lesson, leaves the man blank-eyed, but he must understand the Arabic word for _kill_ because he starts up another frantic stream of slurred panic. "_Non, non, assassin. Pardonner moi."_

"He surrenders."

"So what? We're assassins. We kill our enemies, we don't take them prisoner."

"We kill according to the Creed. Do you want to be an assassin or a murderer?"

"This man could have been the one to kill Faraj. Would you let a real murderer go free?"

Malik scowls and bites the inside of his cheek. The soldier looks up at him in mute incomprehension, looking helpless despite the sword still sitting at his feet. Strange how he hasn't made an attempt to grab it. Strange how none of the other soldiers have been alerted by his cries…

Altair shifts, impatient. "Let's kill him and be done with it. He's a target, not a man."

"_Dai_ Faraj said to never think of your targets as less than human. Besides, he's not our target, he's just some guard. We're here to kill Templars, not him." He reaches down and drags the man to his feet by his collar. "_Go_," he says in loud, bad French, pointing to make sure he's understood. "_Move to run away from here and no you look back. If you do you can die_."

"What are you saying?" complains Altair. "We're wasting time. And he'll give us away."

"Who is he going to give us away to? We didn't see any other patrols in the area." He points again, switching back to his rusty French. The soldier still looks blank. "_Go to run!_ _No you look here again_."

The soldier gets it that time. He trips over his own feet in his haste to escape.

"Didn't fight at all," Altair mutters. His disdainful eyes follow the man as he rounds the bend, out of sight. "I thought Templars were tough to defeat."

"He _wasn't_ a Templar." Malik looks around. They're blocked from view by some tents but still, they aren't exactly being quiet. Why has no one else come to see the cause of the commotion?

"We're knocking the next one unconscious." Altair moves forward quickly, without waiting for debate. "It's safer than letting them roam free."

Malik follows, silent on his feet as they dart past the first few tents. There must be men in them, sleeping, but no one appears as they push by. "He's roaming free in the desert. He'll die of thirst anyway."

Altair smirks mockingly. "But it won't be on your conscience then," he says.

"That has nothing to do with—"

But Altair is already moving away, through the rows of tens, leaving Malik to do nothing but grumble and chase after. The two guards at the mouth of the large tent are as unfocused as the first, and as with the first they see the assassins only when the opening punch is thrown. The shorter one collapses back against the tent after one punch and stays huddled on the ground, much to Altair's disgust. Malik's soldier actually manages to dodge the first blow and pulls his sword free for a wild swing—and from his cowering position the other soldier gives him a dirty look. Strange. Is he afraid of retaliation for actually fighting back?

Regardless, the sword swing is a terrible one. Malik grabs the man's fist and twists until he drops the blade, then sends the man sagging with an elbow to the face. One last knee-ward kick has the soldier moaning on the ground next to his friend.

"I'd think even guards would have some fight training," Malik comments, readjusting his belt so that the sword sits properly when he slides it back inside its holster. "I haven't seen someone use a sword that badly since you were ten-…" He trails off at the first _thwock_ of boot against skull. Altair has not been listening.

And he has the audacity to give Malik a cool glance and say, "Relax. They're unconscious, not dead."

"They weren't unconscious a moment ago!"

"You care too much about people who would kill you."

"Listen, you donkey, they could be eaten by rats right here and I wouldn't care. But since when are our standards the same as theirs? If they were Templars I'd help you peel skin from bone but they're not. Just some poor bastards got sucked up in the Crusades."

Altair's eyes show no remorse. "They've killed innocents. You know how the Christians are, pretending to mistake toothless peasants for soldiers. Every Arab is a Saracen for them. Malik," he says before the real arguing can start, "There are other soldiers sleeping here who will wake up if we don't hurry. Leave these two for the rats, or their brethren, whichever. But they won't be able to alert anyone until after we're long gone."

"…Fine," Malik huffs out. "But you shouldn't be so eager to shed blood."

"No? What is it do you think we assassins do best?" Altair cocks his head. "Did no one tell you how cruel war is? Were the Crusaders merciful to your home when it burned?"

"The Creed says…"

"_Al Mualim_ says to achieve victory. I aim to do as the Master commands." Altair points. "In there."

Malik tugs at the edge of his cowl. He doesn't like the way it hangs over his face, blocking sight out of the corner of his eyes. "They must have heard us, if they're in there," he says. "Which means there's probably a dozen trained Templars getting ready to run us through."

"Then let them try," says Altair. "We are the assassins. Let them fear us as angels of death."

Malik pauses for a moment. Then he cries, "You novice, you stole that out of one of _Dai _Faraj's books! Have you been waiting since you were ten to use that ridiculous line?"

Altair glares at him. He glares back, because the situation seems to call for glaring. Then, together, swords at the ready, they push open the tent flap and stride inside.

Even then, their luck holds. Even then. And it should be the clearest sign of them all…

No one in the tent. No Templars, no guards, no generals or slaves. The roomy expanse is even bereft of furniture and bedding. All they can find is an iron box, a heavy, ugly thing with a rusted lock. Below it is an old scrap of carpet, the faded pattern an Arabic design. Probably it and the box both were looted along the way.

"Where _is_ everyone?" asks Malik. "We were watching them all afternoon but the guards outside didn't notice us. The rest haven't heard us despite all the noise we've been making. The Templar isn't even here."

"If the list is here than it doesn't matter," says Altair, although he looks disappointed. "Check in the box."

"Something so important, and it's not even being guarded?" Still, Malik does kneel down by the iron box to study the lock. "Not completely rusted," he decides after a cursory glance. "Might be easier to hack it off."

"And dull my blade. Use one of your throwing knives to pick it."

"_Naam_, Master." He slides out a knife from the little band of leather strapped to the underside of his wrist. The steel squeals against the iron as he sets to work. "It'll be easier when we have hidden blades," he comments after a while. "You could pick any lock in the world with one of those."

"Just hurry up before the soldiers start waking up."

"Now you're nervous? Why not just knock them all uncon—ah! Here we go." He jerks the blade in the lock one last time. When he twists his wrist the whole thing falls off, both the lock itself and the metal plate to which it was attached. Altair moves forward to lean over Malik's shoulder as he pries open the lid, lifting it slowly to avoid any creaking hinges.

The box is mostly empty inside, but for a few sheets of paper and a yard of wrinkled, heavy cloth. Mostly covered by the cloth is a tiny book, leather-bound with pages showing past the covers in an uneven line. "Strange assortment," Malik mutters.

"What do those papers say? Read them, your French is better than mine."

"Like you can read French at all."

"What do they _say_, Malik?"

"Hold on, hold on, I'm _trying_. It's hard to read this handwriting. Besides, the parchment they wrote on is too thin. See how it's all crinkled from the heat? Makes the ink bleed…"

"Malik, I don't care if they used paper or human _skin_. Which sheet is the list?"

"None of them." He frowns down at the five pieces of paper, sifting through them, moving his lips as he silently re-reads. Has he misplaced a word, a phrase? The handwriting is so _bad_. "This one's blank," he says, letting the thin sheet waft from his fingers. "The one underneath it is just a really bad map of the area. See?" He shows it to Altair. "They put the valley in the wrong place."

"And the others?" Altair's voice is a tense growl. His whole body is rigid with the need to accomplish what they should.

"Another blank page, a list of supplies for…well, more men than they're set up for here. I don't think Al Mualim cares about outdated Crusader supply routs. Look, it's dated from five months ago." The offending pages fall through Malik's fingers, coming to rest at the ground by his feet. There's a little pile growing there, and Altair glares at it as if it's being useless on purpose. "The last sheet's just someone's note to their mother. _'Maman, je voudrais…'"_

"Then where is the list? Al Mualim knew it was here. He said so to a whole group of _Rafiks._ He said that his spies had been keeping an eye on a specific band of soldiers and what Faraj discovered told them exactly where to look. Did they move it after Faraj was discovered? Stubborn bastards! Now we'll have to—"

"Found it."

"—and if we're late your stupid brother will think we're in trouble and-…what?"

Malik grins, clutching the leather-bound book in both hands. "It isn't just one list, idiot," he says. "It's a bunch." He flips through the book, letting Altair see all the writing scrawled across all the creased pages. The insides are thick and smooth: it feels more like expensive vellum than paper, but whatever it is has kept the ink black and clear. In multiple hands and multiple languages are scrawled long lists of names, of places; block paragraphs of descriptions, of both the land and its occupants; several maps, much better than the loose one, of Acre and Jerusalem. Little red dots have been marked on both, though there's no key to say what those dots represent. Malik wonders briefly on how accurate the maps themselves are before turning over the page.

"Look," he breathes a second later. "No wonder Al Mualim wanted this so badly!" For on the next page is a list of eleven names, one crossed out and illegible. But the remaining names are all foreign, a mixture of English and French. _Robert de Sablé_, reads one.

"Templars?" asks Altair.

"Or generals. Probably both. Enemies too powerful to be overlooked." Malik holds the book a little tighter, relieved despite himself. So this mission hasn't been a fool's errand. So they have made the right choice. Surely the good fortune that comes with the Brotherhood having this book and those names outweighs the disrespect of leaving without permission.

He glances through the book again, catching brief glimpses as the pages drift past. On the very last one is a speech written out in passable Arabic, marred with cross-outs and words squeezed in the margins. It looks like a victory speech of some kind, perhaps scribbled out of boredom by whoever its writer was. _We must push for light at any cost,_ says one bit towards the end. _Forward, brothers. May the father of understanding guide all the Templar Order._

Malik closes the book and turns it over in his hands. On the back cover is stamped, in flaking gold, five words in a language he can't read. Latin, maybe? The alphabet is familiar, anyway.

"Can't believe there's no one here to guard this," he says. "It must be full of secrets."

"Our secrets, now." Altair glances at the still-open tent flap. "We should leave and bring our good tidings to Masyaf."

So they leave, as easily as they came. The sun is rising as they slip from the tent, the still darkness replaced by a faint and gritty daybreak. There aren't any sentries to avoid and Altair is able to do his peacock strutting. In his own mind he's clearly risen a rank or three. But then the night's odd luck turns. Just as they're saddling their horses, someone begins shouting from the Crusader camp.

"They've noticed us now," Malik calls, pulling himself onto his horse. "The book is safe, right?" Altair nods, patting at his belt where it's been stashed away. "Then ride, Brother!" He digs his heels into the horse's flanks and it bolts forward. The night air slashes against his face, and the warning cries are muffled by hoof beats. Altair rides at his side, hunched low in the saddle. Of course his cowl hides his eyes, but the wide grin is there for all to see.

Malik is grinning too. He's _done_ it. In sixteen years of life he has drawn blood with a sword and dived from tall towers, stolen treasure from the Templars and kept Kadar safe. He's slept with a woman and learned to read.

Truly, he is a man.

Still grinning, he tugs the reins and leads his horse around the first wide bend in the road. Altair is still at his side, though his usual tendency is to gallop ahead. But not today, not now: not now when they are true Brothers, true comrades at arms. They've different blood but it might as well be the same, and Malik has the wildest urge to grab Altair, grab tight enough to leave bruises on the Son of None's pale arms. He wants to see that blood come to stain the surface of his skin.

In such a mood do the two assassins come around the second bend, where the road narrows between mountains. In such a mood do they see the path ahead blocked with what looks like half the Crusader army, and in front a Templar on horseback, sword already drawn and raised.

* * *

AN: Rant ahoy! Feel free to disagree and disregard.

I've been following Malik's backstory as it develops and, aw man, I know squealing about the details of a character in no way my own is the worst mark of a fantard, but—_but. _All this new information is…melodramatic yet boring (with the possible exception of Tazim). First off, what I got out of the first game was that Malik was a strict follower of the Creed—but I didn't get the sense that he was as strongly attached to its Master as the new canon might suggest. I know he had that one conversation with Altair where the later accuses him of being blind, but if anything _Altair_ is the one who seemingly hero-worshiped Al Mualim and was shocked at his betrayal. Malik acted a lot less enthused. I always got the sense that in the Kadar's Dead Oh God Why equation, he split the guilt 50% Altair, 40% himself, and 5% each for Robert and the Master. (Look, numbers.)

_Anyway_.

I hope no one reading this is put off by the significantly different backstory. In my defense the 'canon' one wasn't out at the start of the story, and by the time it came out I…didn't like it? I'm not even talking about the paring differences—I really love the platonic but complex Altair/Malik interaction in the game. Yet nothing is said about Malik's pregame interactions with Altair in current canon save for 'Oh he was like jealous and stuff.' Why add in all this nonsense with Abbas when you have a great dynamic already there, being slobbered over by the fans? Malik has more fangirls than _Desmond_.

(Admit it, half of you didn't realize Abbas had a _name_ until Revelations info started coming out. I didn't.)

In conclusion, the Abbas soap opera reads like fanfiction gone eh, my preferred soap opera probably reads similarly but I'm not the one with a book contract, and they need to put Malik in these games because the fans might invade Canada if they don't.

And no more Bowden. Please.


	13. Part One: Chapter Twelve

AN: The following is 11,000 words worth of Altair being jealous and nasty. I've noticed that a lot of writers/artists depict Altair as a bit softer 'round the edges, which is interesting in its own right, but I can't help but play up the dismal personality. He's so dysfunctional that I think 'normal relationships' are beyond him. Maybe later, once he's moved past Al Mualim's (perhaps unintentional) damage…

Malik doesn't get a free pass either: naturally unyielding, too quick to respond to jeering. I read a comment somewhere complaining that it's always Malik who ends up needing rescue, when he's just as strong as Altair—and I agree with that. But it's so tempting to put a strong-willed character in a shitty situation to see how they might react. Maybe in the next fic (which I am _not going to write_ because I'm an _adult_ with a _job_ and a _life_ and _original fiction_ and arrrghh) it'll be Altair's turn.

Really what Malik should do is brain him with the nearest rock and head for the hills, because a relationship this crazed, between someone clinging to the scraps of his family too tightly to take care of himself and someone else who's been raised to believe he's only as good as his sword swing, can't end well. But what kind of fanfic would that be?

* * *

_**This Business of Maiming**_

In retrospect it isn't half the Crusader army that blocks the road ahead: maybe thirteen men, plus Templar. But they're armed well enough to be as solid a barrier as the whole army would have been. Malik tugs his horse's reins, hard, as Altair comes to a stop at his side.

"_Shit_," he hisses. "No wonder it was so easy! Altair, this whole thing has been a trap. The camp half-empty, barely any guards, no Templars…they must've been waiting for one of us to arrive ever since _Dai_ Faraj died! How in hell are we to get past all of them on our own?"

But Altair does not have it in himself to admit that he was wrong—that they were both wrong for coming here, that Al Mualim had not sent an assassin to finish Faraj's work for a reason. Even if he was capable of it, penitence would be of little help to them now.

"They've seen us," says Malik in disgust. "I wonder if they'll kill us right off or torture us first?"

"No," the other boy growls. "They won't have the book back. Let them chase us all the way to Masyaf!"

"Masyaf is _behind_ them."

"Then we'll retrace our steps and go around. There aren't enough men to stop us going that direction. We'll go around the mountain, it will only take a few hours of extra time."

"Might as well go _over_ the mountain, while we're at it." But Malik is tugging on the reins again even as the quip leaves his mouth. What other choice is there? In another moment those Crusaders will be charging them en masse.

They ride back the way they came, pushing the horses hard, narrow-eyed and hushed with the danger of the situation. No time for preening now; Malik tilts his head back to listen at one point and confirms that, yes, there are following hoofbeats behind them. They're being chased, and losing ground every minute.

The encampment comes up before them again, but the mottled collection of tents and startled men are no deterrent and neither boy bothers to slow down. The logs heaped on the road are easily jumped over, and after that the path goes straight and smooth through some overgrown fields. The horses are true assassin stock and eat away at the distance, racing towards the horizon. Malik allows himself to hope that maybe they'll survive this after all.

Then Altair slows his horse to a trot, so that Malik shoots past him before glancing over his shoulder in surprise. When the older boy stops altogether he lets his horse stop as well, but only so that his cursing will be heard in the ensuing silence.

"Idiot novice, what are you doing? This isn't the time for a break!"

"Quiet. Malik, listen. Do you hear something?"

"Yes, your voice. I should be hearing the sound of horses because we _should_ be…" Malik pauses. There are in fact no hoofbeats—not theirs, and not those of their pursuers. "They've…stopped chasing us?"

"I don't think so." Altair frowns. "I hear something else. Rushing water…?"

And as they start off again, Malik hears it too: a not-so-distant susurration of water against rock. The horizon is still before them, but it takes less than fifteen minutes to discover the road is not. It ends abruptly in a bare patch of dirt, and beyond is a stretch of thorn bushes and weeds. Rather than lead the horses through such a sharp entanglement they dismount and push forward on their own. In no time Malik has thorns sunk into his palms and his arms are scratched bloody; Altair's robes catch and snarl, the brambles ripping at the cloth. Still they inch forward, painfully slow, the ground a nest of roots to twist over. Malik is about to suggest they turn back when the brush ends.

So does the ground.

They stare for a moment, side by side and in silence, because there really isn't anything to say. The cliff they're standing at the very edge of isn't as dramatically high as the ones supporting Al Masyaf, and the river at the bottom isn't churning as roughly at the center, but nevertheless: there's a cliff, and a river, and no way that Malik can see to avoid either one. There aren't any bridges and no obvious way to go around, not with the underbrush stretching along the cliff for miles in either direction. They can't force the horses through _this_.

"Of course," Malik says finally, if only because he wants a distraction from the expression on Altair's face. "So now we know why they aren't chasing us."

"Taking their time," Altair snarls. "Having fun with us."

"It's a good trap, Brother. I'm actually sort of impressed." Malik sighs, runs a hand through his filthy hair, knocking his cowl off in the process. He pulls it back on, though there's no point in wearing the damn thing now. "I wish," he says, "I could've looked at a map before we left. Would have seen where the road ends, anyway."

(There's no need to say what they're both thinking: had this been a normal first mission, with training and explanation, they would have had plenty of time to consult maps. And to formulate backup plans. And to notice where traps might easily be set…)

"They won't get the book," says Altair fiercely. "I won't fail the Master."

Malik tilts his head to listen. "They're coming," he says. "I can hear their horses."

"They won't all come through here. If it's just one or two we can…"

"One or two _plus a Templar_. You think it'll be so easy to kill one when he knows we're here?"

"What suggestions do you have, then? I won't surrender to them."

"Me either, but trying to fight is just as suicidal. What we should do is…" Malik looks at the ground beneath his feet. He looks at the sudden drop-off and the water below. The cliff on the other side of the river isn't as high, and is lined with gravely beach in some places. He looks at his feet again. The earth here feels solid enough…

"_Malik_," says Altair, trying to mask his strain with anger. They can both hear the shouts of men behind them, in French, and the crunch of booted feet on gravel.

"Is the book secure?"

"What? Yes, it's here. I wrapped it in a pouch to keep dirt out while we were riding."

Malik muses, "Should keep water out too."

"_Allez! Ils sont là-dedans!"_

"They're here," grinds out Altair, "so if you have a plan you should share it—"

No time for arguing, then, no time for debate:

"We'll jump!" says Malik. "It's just another leap of faith. And they won't be able to follow us no matter how well-trained they are."  
Altair looks at him and a muscle in his clenched jaw pulses. For a second there's a curious look in his eyes and he opens his mouth with obvious hesitancy. But all he manages to get out is, "Malik—"

Then the Templar is lurching for them in a crash of branches, gloved hands outstretched, face hidden beneath a red helmet with horns.

"_Go_," screams Malik, his own body already tensed for jumping. Just as the Templar is about to grab his cowl he pushes off from the ground and leaps.

And they are falling, oh, they are soaring towards the river…

He's angled as best he can, but still his stomach lurches in freefall; out of the corner of his eye he sees the white blur that is Altair in mid-vault. The wind is rough and very cold, the water close and getting closer every second. Malik, who has only ever jumped into piles of hay, has the sense of mind to close his eyes as he braces for the collision.

The water smacks against him, sounding loud to his stunned ears. He breaks the surface hard and for a second keeps sinking, stunned body already throbbing and senses overwhelmed. His legs are tangled in his own robes and the water is so cold it's numbing. But thankfully the skills the assassin from Acre taught him kick in even as his useless brain flops over. Lungs burning and eyes straining to see a damn thing in the murky river, he gets his legs free and kicks. His arms splash for the surface, hands open and flexing as if air is a thing he can grab. And still the water is so cold and dark and muted—if assassins are the eagles of Masyaf he's made a mistake in diving here, because what eagle was ever meant to swim this far down…?

His mind, disoriented and air-starved, sends out useless orders to his frozen limbs: orders to walk, to run, to _get out of here son of a bitch Kadar will never find my body if I die now_. But somehow his limbs work anyway, pushing upwards through the water that's so heavy against his face. Gradually his surroundings brighten, the light a signal and a taunt. Desperately he kicks—

And breaks the surface. He bobs up, treading water and coughing at the same time, lungs sucking in air in gasps and heaves. His hair is plastered into his eyes. On one side the cliff soars up; he can see the Templar and some of the Crusader soldiers, milling around at the top. Judging by the Templar's arm-waving he's none too happy at the moment.

Malik is happy. Malik is very happy. Malik is fucking _overjoyed_.

"Look at them," he cries with complaining lungs. "Think they'll follow in after us? You should learn to pray, Altair, because luck like yours won't hold forever. We might actually survive your dumb ideas! Guess you should start bragging…"

But Altair doesn't brag, or indeed say anything at all, because Altair isn't there. Malik turns to where he knows he saw the older boy hit the water, but there's no older boy there now. Just some bubbles.

Malik stares for a split second. Then he curses as loud as he possibly can.

"Stupid—you utter waste of—worthless _novice_!"

He sucks in a deep breath and dives, though every inch of his body resists going back into that dark, airless void. The Acre assassin had stressed calm, strong strokes, because panicked thrashing only sinks a body lower. Malik tries to keep his head clear enough to focus on his strokes and not his shivering. He keeps his eyes wide open, though they start to burn from all the silt.

The lake bottom is still far below him, and for a horrible second he doesn't think he has enough stamina left to keep looking. If he goes to surface for air now he'll have doomed Altair, but just as it looks as though he'll _have_ to turn back he sees a flash of white in the dim grey-green. Pushing his weary limbs as hard as he can, promising his brain and lungs that he'll catch up on his breathing _later_, he grabs for what turns out to be a bit of sleeve.

The outstretched arm inside that sleeve is very still, even after Malik tugs it. But as he gets a wad of cowl in his other hand the fingers twitch. Good enough. He kicks his legs to push upwards, only he's not the best of swimmers to begin with and now his arms are full of _idiot_ _brainless stupid whore's son_ novice. Though he kicks hard as he can—bordering on that panicked thrashing—the surface seems no closer. By now Malik is so dizzy he's not sure he has strength to save himself, much less the both of them. Is this how he is to die, then? Has he chosen dying with Altair over surviving by Kadar's side?

(Maybe it's the lack of oxygen, but he isn't surprised by having to choose. Somehow he's always known that he would have to pick between them, though he's tried so long to keep his split loyalties alive…)

But Malik is too angry to let luck, or water, or stupid Altair, decide his future for him. He has responsibilities! He is needed elsewhere! It must be sheer force of will that moves him upwards now. Only distantly does it register that Altair is trying to kick as well, that his fingers are gripping Malik's wrist so tightly the nails have cut his skin. A small plume of blood wafts from the cut but the added pain doesn't slow them down.

They break the surface. Malik jerks Altair's head above water by his hair, but doesn't have the strength or the desire to check for signs of life just yet. Exhausted, freezing, with black spots hovering in front of his eyes, he propels them both towards shore.

_-i-_

The Crusaders aren't on the cliff edge anymore. Malik's been keeping an eye out, but there's been no sign of them for over an hour. He's too disheveled to wonder where they've gone.

Early morning light on what promises to be another cool day does little to dry him off, and so he spends much of that first hour huddled on the narrow beach, soaked to the skin, water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck. He's had the presence of mind to lay all his weapons aside to dry, discovering in the process that he's lost a throwing knife somewhere between the Templar's tent and here. But the real concern is Altair.

"Stupid! What idiot gave birth to you? Who jumps into a river when he doesn't know how to swim? So stupid, Altair!"

Altair glowers at him. Like Malik he's still drenched and freezing, hair matted to his skull, his weapons at his feet; unlike Malik his face is still deathly white and his voice sounds hoarse when he tries to use it.

The Acre assassin had mentioned there was some way of rescuing those who'd breathed in water and thought it air—he said there was a way to draw out the liquid from clogged lungs, but he hadn't shown Malik what it was. So, upon dragging the half-dead 'Eagle of Masyaf' from the river, Malik had turned him on his side and whacked him upside the head a couple times (similar violence had always worked in the past). The only sound had been Malik's ragged breathing, and he'd given into desperate cursing to mask the horrid stillness. Altair was so unnaturally pale, even for him…the very red of his lips had seeped away.

How to bring a man back to life who'd drowned? Oh, Allah, and what if he failed?

Malik thought of Altair dying and felt nauseous, for several reasons. Beset by a furious rage he smacked the older boy again, but this time the body jerked under his palm, the muscles cramped and the eyes fluttered. Altair curled up on his side and vomited, mostly water at first. Some color came back into his face. He groaned. Malik sat back on his heels, faint-headed with a joy he couldn't name.

So now, an hour later, Altair is essentially his sullen self again and Malik is hiding his relief with indignant protests. It's easier that way, for both of them.

"Don't you think you should have mentioned before we jumped that you'd only sink? Shouldn't you have warned me I'd be swimming for two?"

"You shouted to jump and I did." Altair stares at his bare feet, having shucked off his sodden boots. He hasn't looked Malik in the eye since regaining full consciousness to find the other boy hovering over him in concern. "There wasn't time to discuss the details."

"That was a big detail!"

"What else could we have done? You said it yourself, jumping was the only way. And my leap of faith was still better than yours."

"But _I_ didn't choke on the whole river. What if I hadn't been strong enough to pull you to the surface? What a stupid death that would have been."

Altair mumbles, "I thought I could…"

"Thought you could what? Learn to swim in midair?"

"_You_ know how to swim."

"Because someone _taught_ me first." Malik's eyes flash. "Oh, I see. Because the beggar boy knows how it must be an easy thing to learn. No one can ever do something you can't do better on the first try, is that it?"

"Don't waste your energy taking personal offense…"

"I'm not offended," he mutters. "Just wondering why I'm not surprised."

Altair is still scowling at his feet. Malik stares hard at him, and suddenly the mock anger is real. "You make your own life harder when you do things like this," he says, "and that's your choice to make. But your dumb pride risked _my_ life today as well. Because you were too good to admit your limitations I nearly died. Do you think I appreciate it? Next time let your arrogance keep you afloat!"

He digs his hands into the pebbly ground, so caught in his fury he can feel a headache forming. "You might be the Master's favorite, his prodigal son, but you're not perfect and you're not immortal. You're no better than I am, Altair. The beggar and the half-breed are the same. And it would kill you to admit it, wouldn't it? You've pushed everyone but me away. I used to pity you but now I think you're doing it on _purpose_."

Altair says in a low voice, "I'm sorry, Malik. And thank you."

Malik is so surprised he cuts himself off and echoes dumbly, "…You're sorry…?"

Quick and defensive: "What, is that so surprising?"

"Um. Yes." Malik scratches his head, his anger gone quick as it came, to be replaced by basic bewilderment. How unexpected to get an apology from the Son of None, and a real one at that. _The trouble with you, boy…_

What on earth he supposed to say to a contrite Altair? The idea alone is a contradiction in terms! As much as it irritates him to be close friends with someone who is always sneering, always mocking, it…well, it's _normal_. Malik's razor tongue is kept sharp by Altair's tough edges.

So in a way he's relieved when Altair smirks and says, "You haven't told me yet how happy you are that I'm alive."

"Don't assume that's how I feel," he retorts. This Altair, this presumptuous jerk—Malik knows how to handle _him_.

"Would you have pulled someone you disliked from the water?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly. Probably I should have let you drown for my own sanity."

"And who are you that you should decide the fates of your Brothers…?"

"The Brother in question decided his own fate when he jumped into a river before he learned how to swim." Malik glances at the cliff behind them. "Think you can get your legs to carry you yet? We should dry off but there's no way to start a fire here. We'll have to climb up from that way."

In answer Altair shoves himself to his feet, and almost immediately sways where he's standing. Malik clucks his tongue and moves forward quickly, to sling Altair's arm over his shoulders before he can topple over. Altair seems all shivering and gooseflesh now, the toughness scraped away.

"You'll be the only man in existence to freeze to death in the desert," he says lightly. "Come, get your weapons back on. I'll have to drag us both up the cliff, it seems."

Altair leans against him, breathing in shallow pants. "The Templar book is safe, Malik," he mutters. "We've done it."

"Not yet we haven't. Not until we're back in Masyaf."

"I'll handle any idiot who tries to stop us until then."

"You? Right now you can hardly stand." Malik allows himself a little grin. "So if we do run into any more Templars I'll have to be the one to…"

"_No_."

He is surprised when Altair's hand snakes around to clamp down on his wrist, tightly. He is surprised at the bite to the voice. Altair digs his nails into the flesh of Malik's arm again, as if marking his territory. There is in the thin line of his mouth a determined possessiveness, and he wears it well.

"No," Altair says again. "I'll do what needs be done. This mission was my idea. Involving you was my idea."

"Nearly drowning, was that also your idea?" More unsettled than he understands, Malik jerks his wrist. "Let go of my arm."

"I can handle it, Malik."

"Let _go_."

And Altair does, but the weight of his fingers lingers in invisible pressure anyway. The smell of him, and the feel, and the—

Malik almost shoves him away, though in the end he only mutters something about gathering up their things. He doesn't trust this possessive Altair. He doesn't like all it implies.

_-i-_

They clamber up the cliff and then, because there's not much else to do, they start walking. Malik keeps one eye out for approaching patrols, at least at first, but after a while he's distracted by Altair's lagging pace. The strain of a post-near-death-experience jog makes it clear that they'll have to leave most of the day to recuperating and make camp for the night.

"Might be late in returning to Masyaf," Malik says, biting his lip.

Altair's disgruntled expression darkens further. "I'm not the one who said we should stop."

"No, but I'm the one who will have to carry you if you pass out along the way. Besides, it'll take forever to walk it. Look—there are some houses over there. Those mud huts, see them?"

"Are you," says Altair with a sneer, "suggesting we beg help from strangers?"

"I'm suggesting we see if we can find a horse. That way it won't matter if you faint."

So the two bedraggled assassins cut across some more dry fields, dirt and sticks clinging to the damp leather of their boots. Altair has insisted on wearing his cowl as usual, but the cloth is still heavy-wet and droops down below his eyes. He looks more 'drowned chicken' than 'mighty eagle', but Malik decides not to mention that.

There are four houses here, out in the middle of the fields, grouped about a lone well. Behind one house is a small pen with five sheep. Past that, a spotted horse is grazing in a patch of green grass, tail flicking every so often at the flies.

Malik considers the situation. "Probably a family compound," he says. "Must be a farmer who lives out here."

"Take their horse so we can go."

"I'm not gonna just _take_ it. They're peasants, they can't afford to buy a new one that easily."

"They have sheep. They'll survive. Not like they're going anywhere."

"Altair, I know you were born into the Order and also have a brain full of holes, but can't you even sort of understand how farming works?"

"I'm not a farmer. That was your role, sheep-minder."

"I've news for you, I'd rather be around sheep than some Brothers. For one thing, they're smarter."

"Well, _I've_ a _sword_ for you if you don't…"

"Look, stand here and try not to drown. I'll see if I can make a deal with whoever lives there."

Malik leaves Altair scowling in a dead field—it fits him, really—and approaches the courtyard. There's a woman at the well when he approaches, dressed in heavy, brown robes faded from overwashing, and a black scarf draped across her head and down past her shoulders and chest. But she drops the bucket when she sees him come near and hurries into the nearest house. Malik takes her spot, and scuffs one foot against the well's side to try and scrap some of the mud off.

After a few moment, a man comes back out from where the woman had vanished. He looks to be in his thirties, with a brown beard and long robes lined with blue. Malik nods to himself: prayer cap, fraying sandals, wary curiosity. All the marks of a poor farmer living in dangerous times. (At ten he hadn't realized how many of those marks his own village bore.)

A handful of other men follow the first one out, some older, some younger, all with similar facial features. Brothers, then; brothers and sons and cousins and who knows who else. The last man out is the obvious patriarch, what with his white beard and air of friendly superiority. Malik looks closer and isn't surprised to see that some of the younger men have daggers on them.

He bows his head. "_Salaam."_

After a minute hesitation, the patriarch says, "Welcome, traveler." Another slight pause. "You're here alone?" Implied in that question are the real worries: have you brought the soldiers with you? have you come to take what isn't yours? They're luckier than most—the extended family is large and, if crammed into four huts, within close range. And it's a healthy family, filled with young men prepared to do their duty.

Malik has no wish to create any undue suspicion with them. It's doubtful he could fight all of them off even with his training, at least not without some effort, and the last thing he wants is to be spotted by a passing Saracen patrol.

"I'm here with a Brother," he says, "who's out in the field over there. We were on our way home but came across a Crusader patrol."

The first man runs his eyes over Malik's outfit. "Your clothing is strange. Are you a soldier?"

"No, Uncle. Just a traveler returning home to Al Masyaf."

The words do as expected: a nervous shiver runs through the group, and the old patriarch says, "You are one of them? One of the _hashashin_?"

"Careful," says someone in what he must think is a low mutter. "If the infidel armies have reached this area they'll want to know who harbored…"

"Harbored who?" The person next to him, the youngest of the lot, is indignant. "Is he not a Muslim just as we are? And he fights the Crusaders as a willing martyr. Good blessings will come from this."

"Good blessings and Christian blades."

"There's no need to worry," Malik says. "It was a small group, slipped past the front lines for their own reasons. The main armies are miles away."

Adds the youngest, "And _inshallah _they will soon be in Hell. Right?"

"Yes," he says, placidly evading. "The wars will end."

But the suspicious man isn't satisfied. Malik has heard how some of the more distant villages suspect Masyaf's fortress for all the good it represents, seeing as how it's filled with—horror of horrors—atheistic nonbelievers.

"You are a long way from Masyaf. What brings you here?"

"Private business, Uncle."

"Private, hm? You look too young for _private business_."

"But he wears his sword like a grown man. Stop questioning him, Ahmad, it's rude."

"Well, then why is his friend out in the fields? It's rude of him to lurk back there, isn't it? He could be hiding something."

"Uncle, with respect…" A glimmer of something he used to know strikes Malik then, and he lifts his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. "My companion is, ah…not of the Faithful. It's time for prayers soon and I thought it would be more respectful if he waited over there."

This quiets them. Still, the first man wants to know, "Are you Muslim?"

But Malik is saved from having to lie by the patriarch, who with a clap of his hands announces, "Enough. It's rude to interrogate a guest in this way. What we have is his and what he wants to tell us he will, by Allah's grace." To Malik he says, "You must pardon the questions, but strange faces are rare and risky these days. Pray with us, and then stay for tea."

"Thank you," says Malik, hiding a grin. Altair will be furious if this takes too long, but being a farmer's son, Malik knows to expect the demands of village hospitality. His only hope as he is ushered inside the largest of the huts is that his unFaithful comrade doesn't get eaten by a sheep while he's gone.

_-i-_

Eventually the old man does agree to part with the horse—but not before Malik has to scramble to remember the rituals for prayer after years of disuse. Nothing strikes him while he bows to Mecca: no religious epiphanies, no longing memories of home, just a native custom to be preformed with polite deference. In a way, it's sort of sad.

Nothing is said about horses after prayers, either…at least, not before tea. And not before they discuss his age, his marital status, his wealth, his interest in a certain daughter guaranteed to regularly produce healthy sons. And not before the condition of his male relatives is brought up, with as much apparent sincerity as if they'd known who he was talking about. Of course this means that Malik must then reciprocate the questions, which leads to a round of introductions that he soon gives up trying to understand. _This_ one is the father of _that_ one who is brother to _his_ nephew's second son…

But finally the tea is finished and the family ties explained. Malik tells the patriarch of his current problem, explaining that he and his Brother were forced to abandon their own horses after a surprise raid by the Crusader patrol. Understandably, no one is eager to give up such a vital expense as a healthy horse, but after Malik suggests he might be able to trade for it, the murmurs quiet down.

In the end he gives them two of his throwing knives (wincing as he does, for assassins are lectured by the blacksmiths at length should they lose even one), one of the thick leather pouches he wears at his belt, and a promise that should they go to Masyaf, they can either take back their horse or claim another as their own. There's no way to prove this promise, but Malik doesn't expect them to ask for one: they are dealing with _honor_ here, and a deal made on honorable terms must not be forsworn.

The youngest of the bunch, a nineteen-year-old named Yusef, asks eagerly whether Malik will stay the night. "The stories of the _hashashin_ must be amazing ones," he hints. But Malik reminds them of his companion by the sheep pen, and there is a subtle sense of rejection in the air. Even Yusef allows him to leave without further protest.

He looks for Altair in the field he'd been left in, but doesn't see him; Malik's headache and the commotion by the sheep pen come at about the same time. This is not, with further thought, a surprise.

"Novice! I leave you alone for an hour…"

"What were you doing being gone for an hour? I thought you'd been captured by spies."

"Spies pretending to be sheep?"

"Of course not. Templar spies disguised as your beloved poor farmers."

"Altair."

"_What_?"

"If you thought I'd been captured by spies when I went inside the house, why did you go to the sheep pen and start fighting with the ram?"

"Because as I was sneaking by—"

"You could've walked like a normal man. There isn't anyone here to see you look dramatic."

"_As I was sneaking by_, this stupid animal mistook the edge of my tunic for food. I smacked it so it would let go."

"Still doesn't explain why there's a sheep in the pen eating your cowl while you throw things at it. By the way, your hair's a mess."

"Shut up. Get me my cowl, so we can get out of this hovel."

"Why should I get you the cowl you somehow managed to offer to a sheep?"

"You're the beggar boy from a farm, so you won't mind getting sheep spit on your hands. Didn't you used to herd these things?"

"That doesn't mean I have some mystical connection to every sheep I see."

"Then you're useless! We should have brought Kadar with us and offered him as bait."

"First of all, sheep don't eat people. Second of all—_no_, we aren't using Kadar as _bait_!"

"Well, of course we're not. He's not here. But if he was…"

"Why couldn't you just stay in the field and wait? Why does trouble always look for you?"

"Let it look for me. I'm no coward."

"Yes, yes, except that every time it looks for you it finds _me_ instead."

"Stop complaining and get me my cowl. I was ready to risk my life for you."

"Altair," says Malik firmly, "if the day ever comes when I need you to rescue me, I think I'll save us both the trouble and slit my throat myself."

_-i-_

After some desultory arguing it's Altair who rides in front. Malik clasps his arms around the other boy's waist and gives the occasional reminder not to push the horse too hard.

"It's not one of ours," he says. "It's probably used to pulling a cart, not galloping for miles with two riders on its back."

And they do travel miles, along mostly deserted stretches of road. Occasionally there might be a house or abandoned cart or ruined bit of archway from ages past. This isn't the road they took to reach the Templar camp, and it's less direct—and the horse soon proves itself unwilling to travel more then at a fast trot.

"It will take us two days at this rate," complains Altair. "We'll be noticed if we're not back by tomorrow."

Malik, thinking of the book still wrapped in its pouch and hung from Altair's belt, says, "We'll be noticed either way."

Around dusk the horse stops in the middle of the road and refuses to move on, no matter how hard Altair jerks the reins or curses. The exhausted animal lowers its head to graze even before its riders have dismounted.

"We'll have to make camp around here for the night." Malik knows he should be more concerned about returning late to Masyaf, but as is—dirty and tired and sore from the riding, not to mention the slight queasiness he's had in his stomach the entire time he's been holding onto Altair—he's almost grateful for the stop. Assassins can make camp quick and with few supplies, so as long as they can find an isolated spot they'll be fine. "We aren't too far away," he says after a glance around. "See up ahead, where the road forks? I remember we took that path when we left. Our watchtower is an hour away, if that."

"Might as well be a year away if we can't get this stupid animal to move."

"Let it rest. Tomorrow's the third day, and once we pass the watchtower other assassins will see us and pass the word that we're coming. It won't look so suspicious then. Besides…"

"Besides what?"

"Besides, I haven't slept in two days and neither have you. Your face is frightening enough when I'm _awake_."

Altair, who during this conversation has been wiping the grime off the front of his robes, stills. He tilts his head and gives Malik a peculiar little grin. "If you find me frightening, why were you holding on so tightly while we were riding?" he asks. Malik sputters for a good minute before saying anything comprehensible.

"I was _not_—you're a terrible rider! Even on straight paths you manage to jerk us around. I only held on so tight because if I didn't I would have fallen off." He gives Altair's shoulder a shove, because that grin is simply intolerable. "Be useful, huh? Go find us some water and firewood. And don't genuflect at your reflection in the river for three hours!"

Because both boys are more tired than they might admit, they don't talk much once the small fire is lit. From where they've set up, nestled in a little grove of stunted trees, the road is visible without their being clearly visible too. This late at night there aren't any travelers—the world is quiet but for the background susurrus of the wind.

Any true assassin must prepare for all situations, and so they have enough food for something resembling dinner. Not much more intricate than bread and water, but enough of each to satisfy. And still a little left over for a meal tomorrow, should the trip take longer than the expected hour.

But once the fire is lit, once the meal is finished and the horse seen to, what else is there to do but notice the awkward edge to the silence? For the longest time Malik watches Altair's jaw work as he chews and distracts himself with wondering _why_ he should be so distracted. After Altair is done eating, though, the night weighs in on the quiet and Malik has no choice but to dwell on other things.

He was _not_ holding on overly tight. Why would he? What sort of implication is that?

"Are you," asks Altair, "going to sulk all night?"

"It's none of your concern what I'm going to do. If I feel like sulking I'll sulk."

Altair chuckles. "You're always in such a bad mood."

"You're always irritating!"

"I suppose." Altair gazes at the fire. It's small so as to keep their position safe, and as a result it gives off little heat. Tonight will be a chilly one, and they'll have to huddle in their robes. "We work well together," he says.

"I'm good at saving your novice ass, you mean," grumbles Malik. But he knows what the other boy means, and puffs up just the slightest with pride. "…It's good we found that book. Al Mualim will find use for it."

"And we'll gain rank in reward."

"Assassins shouldn't fight for the sake of reward."

Altair's eyes glint in the weak firelight. "But neither should they stunt themselves by refusing it when it's deserved. Sometimes you're too humble, Malik."

"I just…" He looks up at the overhanging dissonance of stars. So many, and so far away... "We can only be so strong," he says quietly. "No matter how many weapons the Master gives us."

"Maybe you're not humble," Altair says in a flat voice. "Maybe you're just afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"We both know already."

"Once again you talk in circles. It doesn't make me _afraid_ to admit I'm mortal…"

"But you aren't scared for yourself. You know you're tough, you know you can protect yourself against just about anyone. It's Kadar you're always worrying about."

"Oh," sighs Malik, "this again. For six years we've known each other and I still don't know why my brother bothers you so much. He's not a bad fighter. He's as loyal as anyone to the Creed. He's—"

"He's _yours_." Altair draws his knees to his chest and rests his arms on them, scowling. "He's yours and he's _in the way_. How could you have any thought for anyone else when you're so consumed with _him_?"

"If this is another stab at my loyalty I'll push your head into the fire. Obviously I'm loyal to Al Mualim if I was willing to risk my life to get him some book."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? For once stop with the mysterious riddles, Altair."

"Riddles? No, it's you who complicate everything. Anyone else could fawn over Kadar and I wouldn't care but you…" He lashes out suddenly, moving with that startling cat's grace that Malik can only ever react to, in reluctant awe. His hand grabs at Malik's shoulder and yanks him forward until he's practically in the older boy's lap. They stare at each other, and Malik doesn't trust himself to speak. Altair's eyes beneath the misshapen cowl are too untamed, too consumed. It makes sense, in that instant, why he so often keeps them hidden from view.

"You," Altair snarls, "put Kadar before everything. You act as if it's natural but it keeps you blind. How can I hold your attention when he's always there—before your friends, before your allies, before everyone! But he isn't such a strong fighter that he deserves that. It's us two who will change the Order, not him."

He spits out, "I don't like competition I can't defeat. And as long as Kadar's around he'll always win, no matter how strong I am or how well I wield my blade."

"What…that doesn't make any sense. Competition?" Malik tugs, but weakly—far too weakly to break free. And clasped against Altair he can't make his body mind. "Kadar is family. Your first loyalty is always towards your family. Didn't you…don't you remember your own at all? _Dai_ Faraj told me your father was an assassin. Don't you remember him?"

"I remember he wouldn't speak of my mother. I remember he hardly ever spoke to me. And I remember he died before I had a chance to care. What good was it? All he would have been had he survived is another distraction."

"You must miss him at least a bit. It's why you're so obsessed with pleasing Al Mualim. But the old man only cares about your fighting strength, so that's all you ever bothered to have."

Altair gives him a rough shake. "No," he says. "I'm loyal towards him because he deserves it. Because he is the greatest warrior I know! Do you think I'd care about him if he was weak? Family ties are hindrances, Malik, they can't help you. They'll only drag you down."

"You're wrong. You have no idea what _family_ is and I pity you." Malik realizes he is shaking—or maybe they both are. Maybe the desert is twisting them both around. Even at ten, illiterate and helpless, he knew to be mindful of the tricks played by the world's empty spaces.

And still Altair won't let go. Still Malik won't _make_ him.

"If Kadar dies," says the Son of None, "what will you do?"

Without hesitating Malik says, "I'd die too. I'd have failed him and I'd have failed my father. There'd be no point to living after that."

"You see? What unnecessary weak spots Kadar gives you. What worthless burdens."

He looks so adamant. It breaks the tension in a way, because at that expression all Malik can do is laugh.

"Yeah, I guess," he says. "But that doesn't matter. That's the whole _point_."

"What?" Now Altair looks furious, faced with this concept he simply can't grasp. "What do you mean?"

Malik tries to shrug. His arms are starting to go sore from being clenched in such a tight grip. "You're right," he says, "family does make things more complicated. But I think that's half the point of having one. Kadar shares my blood so he…in a way it's like he _is_ me, a bit, and you fight to keep your body whole even if it kills you. The burdens Father gave me are…are no more than the burdens of protecting myself."

The fire flickers at them, running thick with smoke as it burns through the last of its kindling. Malik feels the grip on his arms relax. He looks at Altair and starts to smile—

"No," says Altair with all the confidence in the world. "You don't realize it yet, but the only burdens you have are the ones I give you. You're no one else's but mine."

With his hands a vise he pulls Malik forward and kisses him, hard, his chapped lips unyielding against Malik's own. The kiss is violent, bruising, a clash of teeth and open mouths; the physical reaction is so immediate that Malik moans. His whole body throbs. In foggy distance he hungers as he never did with Nura, as he should have done…whatever it was she feared has happened and he doesn't even mind.

And in his tumult he almost thinks the crashing noise now bearing down upon them is his own shock doing physical damage to the world—

Something comes at them through the stunted trees. It sounds like the whole grove is moving, advancing on them shadowlessly, and then Malik hears the flinty _thok _of a hoof striking a stone. Moving on instinct he tries a roll to the side and ended up sprawling into the grass, fumbling for his sword before he knows what there is to hit. Out of the corner of his vision is Altair, crouched on all fours like a hissing cat.

Four horses emerge into the clearing, tossing their heads. Soldiers ride them like vultures on a dead carcass, bending to duck under the protective branches of the trees. Malik sees the sallow, beardless faces before he notices the red Templar cross jaggedly stitched onto one man's chest. The man's helmet is familiar in the worst of ways. The Templar leader hangs back as the others push ahead, and Malik's vision fills with a forest of hooves and pale fetlocks.

_How? How did they know we were here?_

Too busy trying to comprehend the sudden battle to match his strategy with Altair's, he lashes out with a curved throwing knife, but the small blade cuts the air far from the horse. A bad throw. A startled throw. A Christian soldier bears down on him and he rolls again; the man kicks his horse on to curve it around, to try to ride the assassin down again. Mounted rider stares at kneeling prey.

Malik throws another knife. He has a beautiful vision of it hitting the soldier straight on and knocking him off his seat, but instead the knife spins uselessly off into the trees. No time left to dig out his last one: Malik climbs quickly to his feet as the horse charges. An animal so many times his own height and weight, composed all of flat muscle and knobby legs, can theoretically be bested in various ways. Al Mualim had explained them.

Malik doesn't have time to remember. The soldier comes up fast and starts a broad sword stroke that blurs, aiming to take Malik's head off. If he ducks, the blade will hit his neck a little later is all. Instead he lurches sideways, hears the blade pass and start the upswing, and throws himself against the horse. One hand tangles in tack as he pulls his last knife, reverses it, and stabs the Templar in the leg.

Blood gushes over Malik's hand, gummy and warm. Warm like fresh meat, warm like a sheep being cut open by his father for _Eid_. It's a narrow gash, speckled with white lumps of fat and tissue, the muscle still pulsing inside. Malik is amazed.

The soldier's scream is as messy and uncontrolled as the wound, and the ripping feeling takes all the strength out of Malik's own arm as he tears the knife out of the man's thigh and into some of the horse blankets. The soldier lurches forward in an attempt to stay on the now-screaming creature, but Malik pulls at the blanket again, and it rears. The soldier, still yowling with pain, tumbles off. Malik feels a sharp crack over his head as the man's leg or helmet or _something _collides against him and brings them both to the ground. The threatening long sword vanishes in the grass.

Malik reels backwards, trying most of all to get away, to see what Altair is doing, to see where the other Christian soldiers are; behind him, the horse rears a few more times, lower, before finally settling to kick nervously at the earth.

He takes two steps, jumps, and gets into the saddle before the horse knows what's going on. With both hands free (where is his damned throwing knife? when had he lost it? is the Templar, on the ground but getting up, still dangerous? where is Altair?) he can hold on to reins and mane. The horse jolts into a run across what has become a battlefield. From the higher vantage he can see the kicked remnants of the fire and Altair on their bargained palomino, surrounded by two mounted soldiers. The Templar is still hanging back.

"Malik, _asré_!"

As Malik approaches Altair kicks his horse into motion in a full-body lurch that sends it, and the other mounts, to screaming and snorting. Both soldiers swipe at him. He deflects one sword messily with his own blade, pushing it into a high swipe that leaves Malik with the opportunity to—

To urge his horse forward and wrestle his own sword from its sheath. He swipes at the soldier's exposed underarm, applying enough pressure to the bit that the horse dances sideways. It's a war-horse, trained for battle, but still its gait is jerky, perhaps suspicious of its new rider. Malik grips its mane with one hand while the weight of his sword pulls painfully on the other. His sword hasn't touched any soldier's flesh, but it's enough of a distraction for Altair to break free from between the two.

The soldiers linger only long enough to check on their wounded comrade, and to hoist him onto one of the remaining horses when it becomes clear he can still ride. In those moments the two assassins gallop as fast as the horses will go.

"_How_?" The wind rips at Altair's cowl, his robes, at the words from his mouth. "Where did they come from?"

"Just keep going. We aren't far from Masyaf now. The others will make short work of them if we can outrun them long enough to get them there!" Malik sees Altair wrestling with the reins, fighting to keep the farmer's horse under control. The poor beast isn't used to running so fast over such long distances, isn't used to the crash of swords and flailing bodies. Its ears are pressed back and its eyes are wild, white all the way around. Malik's chestnut mount is faster, not as skinny, but loaded down with tack and Crusader armor. Always armies feel the need to announce their presence with fanfare and decoration; assassins are the opposite, and what Malik wants most now is simply to blend in with a crowd.

For a bit they run side by side, the Son of None and the King of Swords. Caked with dirt, limbs aching, pursued by enemies well-armed and well-trained…still the horses gallop, bearing them home.

Malik allows himself to breathe in deep. He reaches up to adjust his cowl, wondering what it means if any of the soldiers saw his face. Ok. It's ok. They've made mistakes, surely, and being found not once but twice by the Templar proves they need more training, but—they're alive, and they still have the book, and in working to form this little trap of their own they've proven they can think ahead. They did not flinch from violence…

(Malik glances at his hand, curled about the reins. The dark skin is still caked with drying blood. All that from a mere leg wound? This business of maiming is dirty work. No wonder there had been so much blood for the flies in his village. It's funny, in a sick way, how settled his stomach stayed. Hadn't his ten-year-old self been driven nauseous by the sight of all those bloated bodies? Now he thinks he could be drenched in blood and not notice a thing.)

Altair is hunched over his horse again, focused into lines and prickly points. "There's the fork in the road," he says over the wind. "Come, ride faster! Once we pass the old watchtower, there will be other assassins to take up the fight."

"Yes," says Malik, "Of course." There will be assassins at the watchtower, of course, because it's usually guarded now that the front lines have shifted. So there will be other men with blades there. Probably. Except that sometimes there aren't assassins at the watchtower, because every so often Al Mualim will send a larger patrol elsewhere and leave certain borders empty for a while. Probably that won't be the case today, but there's always the chance.

"Either way, we'll be fine," he assures himself. And of course they will be. If the assassins at the watchtower aren't there, the first Brothers Malik and Altair will reach are the guards at the gate. And inside the gate is all the Order. So if the watchtower is unguarded it will only mean a little more anxious riding. The horses won't be happy. But really there's no reason for concern.

Except…

Something dawns on Malik. His chest tightens with a gasping fear before he knows its name. Assuming the watchtower is guarded, they're within reach of easy assistance. But on the chance it isn't—and of course it will be!—on the chance it _isn't_, the first assassins they see won't be the guards at the gate. Kadar had taken to his role of look-out so seriously, there's no doubt he'll still be there, lingering outside Masyaf even though he isn't allowed to do so. So Altair and Malik (and their vicious pursuers) will find Kadar first. Kadar, the novice. Kadar, who's still being trained.

Kadar, _who won't be armed at all._

The strangled gasp for air that Malik gives now is more a groan than a curse. Of all the mistakes they've made on this damned mission, this is the most unforgivable. How can they ride straight for Kadar with four Crusaders so close behind? How can they leave Kadar's safety up to the chance of other Brothers at the tower? How can the younger A-Sayf be expected to fight off unarmed what Malik and Altair haven't been able to fight off with swords and knives?

Wildly, Malik twists around in the fancy saddle to look over his shoulder. The soldiers aren't within view, but their own dust cloud is there, and nearing. They'll catch up soon. It might take only five minutes for the Brothers inside the fortress to hear of the commotion and come to assist, but in those five minutes Kadar will be without sword or horse or will to hide. Five minutes…an eternity on the battlefield. Five minutes Malik can't control.

"Altair," he rasps out, but the older boy doesn't hear him over the wind. "Altair, _wait_," but Malik knows it's useless. Altair will want to finish the mission and present his prize. He is fleeing now only because he looks forward to springing the trap. Altair won't worry about Kadar's safety. How can he? Family for him is a curse.

Malik grips the reins so tightly they cut into his palms. He _can't_ assume there will be guards at the watchtower, and he _can't_ lead these bastards right to his unsuspecting brother. He is the shepherd. How can he play games with wolves?

So he comes to the only choice he has. The fear inside him hardens. _Merciful_ _Allah,_ he tries to pray, but the act has never meant much and the words sound hollow still. So instead he thinks only: _Please. Please let me be strong enough for this to work._

(And strangely he flashes back to the press of Altair's lips on his own. What _was _that about? Was it a harbinger of good luck or bad?)

Malik slows his horse, first to a cantor and then to a slow trot. Altair doesn't notice and keeps charging ahead. In the background comes the noise of many galloping hooves…

It's only when Malik shifts his weight to turn the horse around that Altair realizes there's no one riding beside him. He slows a bit and turns in the saddle to look, and Malik hears his startled, angry exclamation. But that isn't near enough to slow the shepherd down. Malik kicks his heels. The horse picks up speed again, but in the opposite direction.

Altair bellows something after him in disbelief. Malik doesn't turn to look. "Keep riding, Brother," he murmurs under his breath, tasting the clash of self-sacrifice against the sticky-sweet hope that Altair might actually come after him. But that's emotion talking: it makes no sense for both of them to risk so much.

He rides. He rides the wrong way. He pushes on, his mind awhirl in duty and strategy both, until he sees the soldiers in front of him. The Templar notices him first and shouts. The men without helmets look incredulous, not that Malik's surprised. He waits until it looks as though he will ride right through them, and then with a yell jerks the reins and presses his heels into the horse's flanks until the beast bolts left. The world flies by in a mash of color. He glances back only once, to confirm that the Crusaders are following. Then he straightens up in the saddle and gallops hard.

Up ahead there are some cultivated fields and trees and rising hills at the base of the nearest mountain. Plotting his course he decides to head for the trees, because Malik has no desire for suicide. "If I can lose them," he says aloud, for the comfort of hearing a friendly voice, "then Altair will have enough time to get to Masyaf and warn everyone. Warn Kadar. Even if the Templar does find the village later it won't matter." He adds, "And I can always double back around and reach Masyaf by some other route. If I can just…"

Then he hears someone very close behind him shouting in French.

"Ah," snarls Malik, "Damn it!" He again digs his heels at the horse's sides, prodding it to go faster, _faster_, but never fast enough—Allah _damn_ it all—

There is another war-horse riding at his side now, a man in white stretching a gloved hand for his reins. Someone curses, though Malik is too beside himself with frustration to note who. The soldier swipes for the reins, misses, swipes again and grabs on; the horse lets out a squeal; Malik frees both hands to grab for his sword. He'll stab the man to bits if that's what it takes.

But it was a mistake to release the reins with both hands, even for a minute. The Crusader still has a free hand himself, and with that free hand he grabs Malik's shoulder and shoves. At the same time the horse, in protest at the reins being wrenched so sharply from one direction to the next, rears up in outrage. For one lurching moment the assassin fights for balance. Then he falls.

Malik twists in mid-air in an attempt at a smooth landing, but while this isn't the first time he's been thrown, it is the first time he's been thrown at such a high speed. No tricks can make the ground any less rocky, or the angle any less awkward; he lands on his side and shoulder, bites clean through his lip. Fortunately his head missed the brunt of the fall but still he goes dizzy and there's a ringing in his ears. His mouth becomes salty with blood. But Malik is trained to battle as a first impulse and he curls his hands into fists even as his body curls against the ground in pain. He needs only to force the air back into his lungs and then he can fight-…

With his back flat against the ground he looks up and sees the sword, pointed mere inches from his throat. The wielder isn't one of the soldiers but the Templar himself: masked in iron, bedecked in chain-mail, hands hidden underneath thick gloves. From Malik's angle he appears seven feet tall. A faceless demon, a _djinn_ in red and white. He looks down at the boy fighting for consciousness at his feet and presses the tip of his blade against the soft flesh of the throat.

_(He's dead. Malik's dead.)_

Slowly, very slowly, Malik drags his arms along the ground until they're above his head, hands still clenching with stymied energy. Scuffling noises and the snorting of horses tells him that the other three soldiers have caught up and dismounted as well; one of them is cursing over and over, something about his leg. Against all training, and out of sheer reluctance to move the slightest bit with a sword pressed to his throat, Malik doesn't glance over to confirm their positions. Instead he lies as still as he can. His chest alone moves with every shallow, unsteady breath.

The Templar considers him with a slight cock of the head. Malik stares back. It's impossible to make out any physical features with that helmet in the way—perhaps this is one of the same men who left the A-Sayf brothers homeless orphans. Perhaps this is a demon six years born. There are no answers but for the cool press of steel.

Malik is angry, and exhausted, and very, very scared. As he lies there, a victim of poor planning and impulse and Brotherhood, he feels not like an assassin but the illiterate peasant he should have been. He's possessed of no strength now save obstinacy, and he can't bring himself to admit what this trap has made him: dependant, defenseless. Small.

Then the Templar moves his sword away, and says something to the others Malik doesn't understand. Before the assassin can react the Templar reaches down and yanks his head up by a clump of hair. With little flourish or evident bloodlust he smashes Malik's head against the ground again and again, apparently _aiming_ for the rocks, until at last there's no choice for Malik but to drop into the growing mist, oh so dark and still.

* * *

AN: I swear this is the last time in this story Malik blacks out. He stays awake for the rest of the bad stuff, baby.

Oh, and the transition from kiss to battle (and then most of the battle because I don't know my fightin' terms) is a **skywalker05** creation. She helped with post-kiss details despite not liking this paring or indeed slash in general. Now that's friendship.


	14. Part One: Chapter Thirteen

AN: FFdotnet is being incredibly buggy right now. Bad formatting is not my fault at all.

(_Unofficial Title: In Which Malik A-Sayf Has a Very Bad Day)_

Warnings and apologies for the many insults, uncomfortable implications, and downright nasty moments that follow. I don't _think_ it's anything that requires a rating change but I could be convinced otherwise. It should go without saying that I agree with none of the ethnic/religious/sexual slurs that follow, except for that one about Altair being a confusing mess. Totally agree with that one.

All the French comes from google translate and/or my vague remembrances of four years worth of high school French way back when (which I failed with great gusto at least twice).

Ahah...it's sort of sad how morbidly proud I am of this chapter.

* * *

_-i- -i- -i-**  
**_

_**Little Animal**_

Malik comes to slowly, groggily, the ground bucking beneath his body. His head feels split open, so it takes him a moment to notice the world hasn't lightened any for his regaining consciousness. When he flutters his eyes the lashes catch on the strip of thick cloth tied over them. He'd reach up to tug the blindfold off if only his hands weren't tied behind his back, rope cutting deep into his wrists.

(Blindfold. Rope. The thoughts come slow and sluggish in a mind still half-stunned: blindfold, Templars, capture. Not dead, but probably about to be.)

Dread finds him. Not being able to see is suddenly the worst fate of them all, the world now nothing more than a series of claustrophobic unknowns. Malik jerks back his head but the blindfold is tied too tightly to dislodge; the sharp movement has his stomach churning with fresh nausea. His lungs demand a deep breath he can't take, not with the second strip of cloth tied over his mouth. The gag sticks to dried lips, making breathing difficult.

Malik thrashes as best he can, trying to breath through his broken nose—and it hurts so badly it can't be anything _but_ broken—despite all the clogging blood. The gag tastes faintly sour when he pushes against it with his tongue. For a minute he allows panic to set in as he struggles…suffocation would be such a _stupid_ way to die!

Then a heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him still. Instinctively Malik widens his eyes in a vain attempt to see. "You steady," says a low growl of a voice in piecemeal Arabic. "Stay still. Breathe slow."

"Mmph," says Malik, because it's the closest he can get to 'Go eat pig shit' under the circumstances. He jerks, wanting that hand off his shoulder, but all he manages to do is dizzy his obstructed senses further. No sight, no voice, no way to throw a punch: the indignity of it all sends him thrashing all over again, glad that at least his legs are free. Though they don't appear to be touching the still-swaying ground…

_I__'__m __on __a__ horse_, he realizes—and just like that all his squirming catches up to his precarious balance. The animal whinnies as Malik starts to slide sideways off its back, and because he has no desire for _another_ hard fall off a horse Malik tries to yelp along with it.

The stranger behind him grabs his shoulder again and yanks him upright. "You stay _still_," he demands, his words as much warning as threat. "Break skull, we leave you twitching for the birds."

"Mmh mmh," Malik mumbles. Cursing is distinctly less satisfying when unintelligible. Without much other choice he settles down and tries to focus on breathing through his nose, his throat constricted, his stomach churning with the rocky gait of the horse. They'll leave him if he breaks his skull? It already feels broken. Just the fact that it took him so long to realize he's being carried off somewhere must be proof of damage. Impossible to tell what time it is or even what day, but the sun feels much stronger than it did before he passed out. Malik winces to consider his position now: captured and injured, roasting in the heat.

He's afraid, though it would take a sword to the shoulder for him to admit it. He's afraid, because the mission has gone so wrong, and there's no way Al Mualim will risk more men to rescue him…and no doubt Altair kept riding for Masyaf, determined to complete the mission, never bothering to look back. Meanwhile Malik has dropped himself into Templar hands, and they know he's an assassin, and whatever plans they have for him are sure to be brutal. Even _Dai_ Faraj said once that death was less chilling a thought than capture.

_Dai__ Faraj_. Malik slumps low. He's failed the old scholar most of all. Failed the scholar and his Brothers and the Master—and who will protect Kadar if he dies?

They ride on and on. The heat and Malik's parched throat are unbearable. Even without the cloth he'd be half-blind with pain from his head. He dips in and out of consciousness, confused by his own delirium. Maybe he's already dead. Could this be Allah's punishment for disbelievers? Visions of burning wastes drift before his eyes, fragments of screams echoing across dark voids: Malik can't tell if it's real or if he's dreaming. Floating on this endless se_a_ _of_ sa_nd__…_

_ "Well, it only makes sense, Brother." Kadar nods at him, hands on hips. His novice uniform is torn and dirty, the grey hood misshapen. One day the little brother will wear the white cowl of a full-fledged assassin, but it's hard to imagine it now. "It only makes sense. You need your great wound if you're gonna be a Master Assassin. You need to suffer first."_

_ Malik is so tired it hurts to lift his head. Hurts to make sense of everything. Kadar, here? But why?_

_ "Are you alright, Malik? You don't look so good."_

_ "I'm…I'm just…" Malik squints at his brother. "You're bleeding."_

_ "Oh, this?" Kadar rubs at the gash running straight across his midsection, smearing the blood against his palm. He shrugs. "Well, you should have expected that."_

_ "It looks bad. There's a lot of blood. Kadar, what happened?"_

_ Kadar giggles and kicks up a cloud of sand, which catches and hangs there, drifting in midair between them. "I already told you," he says from behind the little cloud. "You need to suffer first."_

_ "You're bleeding really badly. Tell me what happened!"_

_ "You know," Kadar chirps, "Altair's always going to be better than you. Better at fighting and killing and, well, everything. And he'll never really have to lose anything. You'll just have to keep suffering for him, because every time something goes wrong it'll be you who takes the punishment, and he'll never apologize or—you should probably try to hate him but I don't think you can—"_

"Boy. Up." A hand clamps down on Malik's shoulder, jerking him awake. He's still clearing the dust from his thoughts when another hand grabs him under the shoulder. Malik tenses on instinct as his stiff body is hauled off the horse's back and dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. Now he's glad he's gagged, because the cloth stifles the little pained cry (his head-! the movement-!) that leaps to his throat as he hits the dirt.

There are footsteps and murmurs, nothing he can understand. He rolls from his stomach onto his back, feeling the strain settle into his bound arms; from there he works his way into a sitting position, crossing his legs. It's an ungainly performance and it draws laughter from his audience, but Malik ignores them. He 'gazes' at his lap and tries to look at ease with his situation, though it's hard to maintain dignity while trussed up like a sheep for slaughter.

His shoulders ache from the unnatural position. His fingers are staring to go numb.

From the sound of things the soldiers are busy unloading the horses, talking to each other, doing whatever it is Christian soldiers do on their missions. For a while Malik sits there, hunched over, hoping to go unnoticed in the commotion around him. The last thing he wants is for them to remember the defenseless enemy in their midst. The man he injured is somewhere behind him, still swearing away, and his curses don't promise anything good. Someone else says something in French about tending to the horses, and for all his wanting to be forgotten Malik still allows himself some indignant rage. They'll take care of the beasts before they bother to remember the assassin going half-mad with thirst.

Footsteps come up behind him and he stiffens. Will they kill him now, after dragging him all this way? Although it doesn't make much difference Malik closes his eyes. It's said that Master Assassins can predict a sword swing in any situation…then again, it's also said that Master Assassins are smart enough to keep from being captured by their own targets.

Fingers tug at where the gag's knotted until it loosens enough to slip below his chin. Malik sucks in a huge gulp of air, gasping a bit. But before he can get used to the freedom a hand clamps over his mouth. The knuckles are hairy where they brush against his cheek.

"Do not speak even one word," says the by-now familiar voice of his escort, probably the only one of them who speaks any Arabic. "Or I can pull the tongue out by roots." Malik wrinkles his nose at the smell of the man. Do these people ever bathe?

The soldier tightens his grip, fingers digging into skin. "Understand?" he demands.

Malik deigns to give the briefest of nods. The hand pulls away. Something leathery is pressed against his lips: a canteen. Despite himself he drinks greedily, guzzling the warm water as if it were pure ambrosia. But the bag is pulled back after only a few moments. Desperate to quench the burning in his parched throat, he leans forward as if to chase after. It's only at the fresh sniggering that he remembers himself and sits back. Malik is an assassin of Masyaf—he will beg these cowards for _nothing_.

"_Wants__ more,__ does __he?__"_ says a new voice in French. The accent is fast and slippery, and trying to parse out the words only adds to Malik's headache. "_Here, __give __him__ more.__"_

Without warning Malik is grabbed by his hair and shoulder, and dragged across the ground. He kicks out, grinding his toes against the dirt in hindered protest, has time for a strangled, "Let _go_!" before his knees bang into something hard and his head is shoved low. Water closes over his head. He recognizes the insult at being pushed into a horse trough, but indignation is replaced by a very real and very urgent need to breathe.

The water is filthy with straw and detritus. Malik digs his feet into the ground for leverage and tries to push himself up, but whoever's holding him down is all brute force and iron. He thrashes, lungs afire, thinking he can hear snickering even underwater. Just as the blindfolded darkness is starting to look a little more _solid_, the pressure at the back of his skull lifts. Malik lurches up, falls back onto the ground and bends at the waist on his side, coughing violently. The sodden blindfold, cool against his skin, has become the only thing keeping his headache from robbing him of consciousness again.

_"__Aren__'__t__ you__ thirsty, __little__ sand__ monkey?__" _The person is standing over him now, from the sound of his voice, and when Malik spreads his legs a bit to confirm he finds that said someone is standing with a leg on either side of his own body. He rolls onto his back, ignoring the protesting cramps in his arms, and considers the possibilities.

"_Stupid__ fuckers. __Look__ how __pathetic __he __is.__ And __this __is__ the__ best __these __heathens__ have __to__ send?__ They__'__re__ dressing __up__ scabby__ brats__ as__ warriors!__" _The voice nears a bit; the speaker must be bending down. "_Well,__ heathen,__ avez-vous __soif?__"_

Malik brings one knee up and smashes it into the nearest bit of soldier he can reach. Then he cocks his head to better hear the squealing as the man careens wildly backwards. Yep. Malik did a good job of considering the possibilities. It's nice to know he can still aim, he muses as in the background the man keeps shrieking. That was a strong blow, even without eyesight to help. Things _crunched_.

His victory is short-lived. From nowhere come a snarl and a kick to the side that leaves him gasping. More follow, to his ribs and chest and the back of his head. There's no way to block the blows with his hands tied, no angle he can curl into that will provide escape. Someone's foot connects with the side of his jaw and the pain blossoms all the way up through his nose; he bares his teeth and hisses to keep from yowling outright. There's a hand on his throat that lifts him right off the ground while he squirms and kicks and tries to breathe.

"_Little__ monkey_," his captor pants out.

"_Non. __Attendez.__" _Another new voice, the echo of it suggesting the Templar's helmet. Malik is too busy choking to care.

"_Wait?__ Comment?__ I __won__'__t__ be__ disrespected__ by __a __dirty__ rag-head._"

_"__We__ need__ him __actif.__" _The French flies fast from their tongues and Malik hurts too much to capture every word. The curses are obvious, anyway, in whatever language they're from.

"_Alive?__ But__ there__'__re__ too __many __of__ these__ bastards__ as__ is.__"_

_"__Thierry_**.**_" _The Templar's voice is calm. "_We __have__ our __orders __from __le__ général__.__"_

_"__Old __orders.__ We__ are __closer __to__ their__ cachette __than __before,__ so __from __here__ we __can __find __it __ourselves __I__'__m __sure!__ What__ do __old __orders __matter__ now?__"_

_"__They __matter__ more __than __ever.__ We__'__ve__ searched__ this__ one__ already,__ et_ _il__ n'a__ pas__ le__ livre.__ It __must __be__ with__ the__ other __one.__ So__ we __need __to __find__ where __l__'__assassin __secondes__ has__ gone.__"_

_ "We don't need him to track a rat to its nest. We'll find it on our own."_

_ "Oui? You misjudge them."_

_"__Misjudge!__ Misjudge __this __enfant__ half__ my__ age __and __a __heathen __besides? _You _think__ too__ highly__ of__ their __master__'__s__ den__ of __vermin.__" _Malik kicks out again, weakly, at the insult to Al Mualim. The hand at his throat tightens in response.

The Templar's voice sharpens. "_Thierry_," he warns, "_Your __confidence __is__ risqu__é.__ I__ have __seen__ myself__ what__ l'homme __mystérieux_ _of__ Masyaf__ are__ capable__ of, __even__ the__ young__ ones.__ Have__ you __not__ heard__ the__ stories?_"

"_I__ don__'__t __fear__ their __stories._"

"_You__ should_. _This __desert __makes __the __assassins__ cruel.__ A__ starving __rat __will __chew __through __a __man__'__s __face __even __as __he__ thrashes.__"_

_"__So __do__ with __him __as __you __would__ do __with __rats. __Bash __his __head__ in __and __feed__ the __body __to __your __dogs. __Plenty __of __meat __on __this __one!__" _The laughter from the other men is not pleasant. Neither is the limpness creeping into Malik's legs.

But the Templar ends the debate with a curt, "_Non. __We __have __beaten __half __a __dozen __peasants __from__ Acre __to __here __and __none __would __tell __us __where __the __hidden __roads __to __Masyaf __lie. __It __would __take __our __whole __army __to __break__ through__ their __front __gates. __And __the __other __assassin __will __be__ hidden __in __the __montagnes_ _by __now, __he __knows __the __land __better __then __do __we. __Unless __we __know __where __to __lie __in __wait __le __livre __will __be__ lost __to __us __and __our __trap __will__ have __closed __on __our __own __heads__. __It __was __la __mission __to __find__ Masyaf __and __les__ tuer __tous. __Not __just __this __one.__"_

_"__Hnn._" Finally the fingers loosen and Malik crumples to the ground. Through the roaring in his head he hears, "_D__'__accord. __But__ when __you __are __done __with__ him__ I__ will __have __my__ fun.__"_

Then another voice cuts in, "_Why __wait? __If __these __rats __are __so __strong __they __won__'__t __talk __because __we __ask __it __of __them.__ See __how __many __bones __you __have __to __break __before __il __commence__ à __chanter__, __if __you__'__re __so__ eager __for __his __screams.__"_

Malik waits for the Templar to forbid this as well, to explain the many wise reasons why torture will not work and thus is not advised. He waits up until he hears the sound of fading footsteps and realizes that the Templar has walked off without a word against mindless violence, so long as the victim stays alive to endure it. Malik waits and waits for someone to forbid this, _someone_—and when no one does he curls himself tighter against the ground and tries to keep his vomit down.

_-i-_

Afterwards they gag him again and drag him off…somewhere, who knows where. Malik is too buried in pain and anger to focus his few remaining senses on the world around him. All he knows is his legs banging against the ground, his leggings ripping open at the knees. They tear his cowl off and for the first time in his life he feels naked without it. At some point, a minute or an hour into this latest stage of the ordeal, someone tugs him upright and fumbles at his waist with fat fingers until his leather belt falls away. More bounty for the Templars: by the time they reach their destination they have stripped away all Malik had of value, and he knows that next they will divide up the bits of his self.

There are chickens clucking in the background, and the smell of fields layered with manure, but the only voices are masculine and military. If this is a village, it's been emptied of its former tenants.

More walking, through the maybe-village. By now Malik is expected to walk of his own accord, propelled in the right direction by a hand that appears randomly to dig sharp nails into his shoulder and turn him about. But though he is very used to desert trudging, this is a new sort of struggle. His bound arms rob him of balance, his blindfolded eyes of confidence in his steps. His bare feet throb and—he suspects—bleed from stepping on rocks. (His boots, thick leather, well-crafted and clean, were one of the first things to be stolen.)

Often he stumbles. Several times he falls outright, cursing his own clumsiness and landing hard. The soldiers kick him for the trouble before hauling him back to his feet.

His head still pounds. His throat still stings with thirst. His stomach twists with a hunger that leaves him queasy. The beatings have left him bruised and bleeding: sore ribs, sore arms, sore and broken nose. When the Christians bother to tell him anything it's to tell him what a sorry piece of shit he is, what a filthy little monkey, silly drooling harlot's son.

Malik doesn't care. Malik thinks only, again and again: _I__ was__ right__ to__ come. __I__ had __to __turn __back. __Kadar,__ I__ would __never__ let__ them__ do__ this __to _you_._

When the blazing sun is replaced by cool darkness and the ground turns to stone under his feet, he realizes he's been brought inside. The air is musty and still. Another old watchtower? The soldiers stand him against a wall and leave him there amid a flurry of footsteps and muttering. There are new voices now, some speaking in dialects Malik can't even begin to understand. Requests are made for _le__ général_ and more Knights Templar and someone named De Sablé_,_ whose name sounds familiar.

"Well, boy," someone says to him in surprisingly fluent Arabic. Malik scowls in the voice's general direction, hoping they can read the disparagement in his clenched jaw. "The wise assassin, are you? I wouldn't trust you to shovel horse shit." A shove to his shoulder. "Idiot. Who told you to go and fight?"

"Mmh," says Malik. _Give __me __a __sword__ and__ we__'__ll__ see._

"What was that? Hello, Muhammad, try to speak up. I bet you picked up a sword on a whim. Some angry farmer's wondering where his goat-herder's gone."

"Mmph. Mmh." _I__'__ve __gone __to __fight __because__ you __killed __my__ family. __But __you __missed __me. __You __missed __my __brother. __Give __me __a__ sword __and __I__'__ll __ram__ it__ so __far __up __your __ass__…_

"So where's your friend? The one with our book? I'm surprised we haven't found him yet, but then, he wasn't supposed to get away. Even fools have fool's luck."

_Altair?__ You __want __him?__ You__'__ve __a __better __chance__ of __finding __Allah. __Altair __is __the __best __assassin __I __know. __You__'__ll __never __find __him._

"Think he's dead already? Maybe he came to rescue you and died along the way. What a story for your master that would be."

_You__ won__'__t __find__ him __and __you __won__'__t __find __your __book __and __you __can __kill __me __a__ thousand __times __over __but __I__won__'__t __tell __you __sons __of __bitches __anything. __Might __as __well __cut __my __tongue __out __now._

"We'll find him, you know. You heathens are too stupid to last, dying's what you do best. We'll find him and make him scream. If you're still alive you can watch."

Another hand on Malik's shoulder, but this one lingers. Fingers trail along the side of his neck. In bewilderment he shies backwards but there's a wall and other soldiers keeping him in place.

"Usually you're all so dark and dirty," says the voice in wonder. "But you're still…young. Fresh. You aren't half as bad as I thought you would be…"

Malik's stomach catches on before his mind. With a disgusted groan he jerks his shoulder, knocking off the creeping fingers. The speaker laughs.

"_Eh__ bien,__"_ says the shadowed voice Malik recognizes as that of the Templar, "_L'emmener, __dépêchez-vous_."

"_Oui, __oui.__" _And again rough hands propel him forward, down passageways where the air is close and stale, where the walls are chilly stone and the halls too narrow for two men to pass abreast. Malik is getting better at telling his surroundings without seeing them, and keeps his balance as he walks. The footsteps echo, but he thinks he hears two other sets besides his own.

There's the sound of metal screeching, and a waft of putrid air. He's shoved forward and down, to his knees. The gag is tugged off, followed by the blindfold, finally. Malik blinks hard, wobbly with the world's reintroduction. His left eye is swollen shut, and the room is very dark, so even with his sight returned to him it's hard to make sense of his surroundings.

He's in a little stone room, wide enough for a few step's pacing in either direction but small enough to feel cramped no matter how he sits himself. There's one tiny crack of a window, high above his head, and a ceiling held by wooden beams and mostly lost to the gloom. The door behind him is heavy wood, lined with iron—a real fortress barrier. No way for even a Master Assassin to kick it down. There are torches mounted about the wall, just over his head, but none of them are lit. The only light drizzles in grey and sickly from the little window.

Malik waits for them to untie his hands but that doesn't happen. He was right, there are two men in the room with him: the red-helmeted Templar, crisp disinterest in layers of armor, and a new soldier, not one of those who set the trap. This new man is dressed identically to the Templar, only without the helmet. His shaggy brown hair falls into blue eyes and across a forehead so pale even Altair would look dark in comparison. (As he often does, without meaning to, Malik tries to imagine a woman that white and clashing, lying with a man of more normal coloration. No wonder Altair is such a confusing mess.)

The Templar says, "_Allons-y.__"_

The new man grins wide, showing all his yellowed teeth. "Not yet," he says, in Arabic. And at the sound of that voice Malik's eyes widen and fresh nausea rises in his throat. Because his arms still aren't free he kicks out when the man lunges for him and they tussle like that, Malik banging already-bruised shoulders against the stone floor and fighting as only a trained assassin can, with teeth and knees and deadly silence. Even with his arms bound he manages to hold his own. Meanwhile the Templar leans against the door frame and mutters into his ugly helmet.

The second man laughs, apparently enjoying himself, and through brute force gets a leg on either side of Malik, leaning over him. Pinned, the assassin keeps squirming, if only because he can't think of anything else to do.

"Get _off_," he says, voice hoarse from thirst and disuse. "Get off me!"

The man puts one hand on the side of his neck, and at the feel of those fingers again Malik shivers. With his other hand the soldier trails his fingers along Malik's swollen face, pressing down hard on the bruises. "They shouldn't have been so rough with you," he says. "They should have at least left your face alone." One finger dips down, running across his lips with the lightest of touches—

Malik bites that finger so hard his teeth touch bone. The soldier falls back, howling (in French this time) with blood spurting from the wound. A very indignant Malik sits up and starts cursing in every language _Dai_ Faraj taught him and then some. His mouth is stained red with stranger's blood.

Of course the man leaps back at him, swinging wild punches while the Templar looks on. Once again Malik crouches under the brunt of the blows and curses, bleeding badly but determined to stay conscious through the assault. It's not as hard this time; though the man aims for his nose and stomach the punches themselves are weak.

"_Little __bastard_," the man screams. "_You__ must__ want __to __suffer!__"_

But Malik has suffered before, and worse. Does this madman expect him to beg for mercy so easily? So his nose is broken, so some ribs are broken. So the soldier is flailing at him in impotent rage, having so exhausted himself he's resorted to scratching with his fingernails. Eventually he stops altogether, face red and shiny with sweat. Malik begins the slow process of sitting up, testing each limb, waiting for cramps and spasms to fade. He must look a disaster, but his head is surprisingly clear.

The Templar shakes his head and walks out of the room. His comrade is holding his bloody hand with his other, glaring at the assassin in pouting, frothy anger. "Now you see we mean business. You mongrels never learn unless the lesson is beaten into you."

Malik isn't listening. Sitting is proving more difficult than he'd hoped, and rather than struggle in front of the enemy he chooses to lie back down and look bored. Really, the worst of his wounds are from his falling off the horse and the post-horse-trough thrashing. This idiot doesn't know the first thing about proper punches. It would hurt more to have Kadar smacking him around.

He smiles a bit at the thought. The soldier sees the smile and is incensed into violence all over again. Now he kicks more than punches, and his boots ensure that the blows actually hurt. But still, this pain is nothing compared to older wounds.

"Take this then. Here's your lesson in groveling to your betters."

The thought of humbling himself over _this_ man only gives Malik a wider grin. Yes, after all the Brotherhood's training—and all the experience dealing with pent-up aggression in the form of Altair Ibn La'Ahad—he's really going to cower in front of some perverted Templar's assistant with his weak strikes and his finger bitten half-off!

Malik wonders whether Altair has told Al Mualim of his capture, wonders if the Son of None is at all concerned, wonders if he himself might easily be replaced in the older boy's mind by some other object of strange obsession. Wonders why that moment at the campfire seemed so natural when neither of them are women and neither of them are willing to pretend otherwise. Wonders who else would put up with such behavior. Not even hero-worshipping Kadar would dare. Forget Altair: maybe it's Malik who's demented.

_You should probably try to hate him, Brother, but I don't think you can._

"I did try," Malik mumbles; the soldier thinks he's being mocked and aims his next kick for the jaw. "Nnh! I did."

To be distracted by _that_, and _him_, at now of all times seems a sick sort of humor. Here Malik is being beaten, more or less, and he can't keep his mind on the blood dripping into his eyes. Truly Altair is more dangerous than any Templar. All the soldiers might do is torture and kill him, tear his physical body to shreds. Altair can so easily get into his mind and twist every bit of sober logic until it snaps…

"Stop smiling! You think this is a joke? Look what you've done to my finger! Go on and beg me, _beg_ me to stop."

_Beg __me__ to __stop._ Something Altair might say. But Altair is a fool to think he can control how Malik reacts. "You're no one else's but mine," the older boy had said, but he was wrong wrong _wrong_—Malik keeps his own counsel—Malik will choose himself what to give and what to take—

The Christian soldier screeches and lashes out until he's hoarse and panting. Through it all Malik smiles, though the world warps and coherent thought is chased away. If he could he would laugh and laugh, for no reason and every reason, for Altair most of all. But his mouth is too filled with blood to try.

_-i-_

Eventually they untie Malik's hands and leave him alone in the little cell of a room. So spent is he that his first inclination is to sleep, letting all the worries of his current life wait for later. But as an assassin he knows he can't turn his back on danger. In a foul temper he considers his options.

There's nothing in the room besides a wooden bucket half-filled with cloudy water. Dead bugs bob at the surface. Malik grimaces and spoons a few out with his hands before realizing he's only wasting water by splashing it around; who knows how long this one bucket will have to last him? He tears off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his dirty tunic and sets to cleaning the worst of his injuries, hissing with the pain of touching open wounds. There's nothing he can do about his headache or nose, or all the bruising, but at least he can make sure the gashes don't get infected. He prods at himself, carefully, unsure of what is damaged and what still whole. Nothing besides his nose and maybe a rib seems outright broken, but it hurts to stand for more than a minute and his head is still pounding away.

He allows himself one long drink of brackish water. Then he settles against the wall to wait.

An hour or a day later, the Templar comes back. Not alone—there's a host of other soldiers trailing behind him, one limping with a glower—but he's the only one who does any talking. In French he asks Malik all sorts of questions: who his accomplice was, where his accomplice went, what the Old Man of Masyaf wants so badly with the book. Did they know they were walking into a trap? Are there other assassins lurking nearby? Where is Al Masyaf, and how best might an army sneak in unexpectedly?

"I don't understand," says Malik in a thick peasant's accent, again and again. "What? I don't know what you're saying."

He's already decided to pretend not to understand any language save his own. Better they think he's some bumbling fool caught in over his head. Maybe they won't be as rough with him if they think there's less to gain. As it is the Templar smacks him around a bit, but not for long. After maybe half an hour of Malik staring at them in supposed confusion, the soldiers leave. They grumble about the assassins being 'as dumb as all the rest', and Malik hides a grin.

For hours more he's left alone, to sit in the chilly cell and force himself not to take another drink. What if they just leave him here to starve? Isn't there any way to escape? The smell of the place is nauseating; one corner is stained darker than the rest, and a whiff confirms that he won't be taken out to use a bathroom any time soon.

He slips into an uneasy, uncomfortable slumber, wakes up at every outside noise to a world made hazy by his headache, and has to fight for lucidity when he finally gives up on sleep. Even breathing hurts because his chest is a mass of bruises. He moves towards the water bucket but grits his teeth at how long it takes him to manage even those few steps. When he tries a couple laps around the cell, to keep his strength up, he staggers along like a leper with rotting feet. By the end of it he's practically crawling, dragging along his body through stubborn force of will.

The Templar comes back, alone, and asks him the same questions, still in French. Malik sits against the wall and dozes, ignoring him outright. After all, there's nothing to be gained by this one man's appearance; it's when there's a crowd of them, jabbering in a language he supposedly doesn't know, that he can glean bits of information. The Templar sounds more frustrated this time, which brings a bit of a smile to the boy's haggard features. _Caught __the __wrong __guy, __did __you?_ he thinks, letting his eyes slip shut, never mind that the soldier is still babbling. _Let__ the __bait __get __away? __So __much __for __your...__we__ assassins __can __lay __traps __of __our __own._ And meanwhile Kadar has escaped the fray…it's worth all the bruising then, worth all the captive's disgrace…

The Templar thumps him on the head with a closed fist. Malik slides down the wall with a mewl of pain he can't control. His headache, lurking with a steady beat since his arrival, rages up in fresh spikes. The world dims dangerously.

"_What roads will the other assassin take__?__"_ The Templar grabs him by the shirtfront with one gloved hand. Malik doesn't have the strength right now to break free, and when the other man raises his free hand as if to land another strike the assassin instinctively cowers. Only for a moment, before he catches himself and straightens up, but still—

The assassin flinched before the Templar. If Malik could find another horse trough to drown himself in, at this point he probably would.

"_Just answer the questions and save yourself the trouble. You're just a little mouse taking the blame for what the rat does. We don't care about you. Answer the questions and give yourself your liberté."_

"Your helmet is stupid," Malik tells him, knowing the Templar can't understand, still hating himself for flinching. "Your helmet is stupid and you smell like dead dog. I don't care what you have to say. If you have to keep busy go cry in a corner!"

The Templar—who as it turns out understands Arabic better than he speaks it—hits him again, but not with any real force. The Christian seems wearied by the whole thing, if his sigh is any indication. Still Malik falls back, huddled in a little heap of anger and pain.

"_Boy,__"_ says the Templar, "_You__ bring__ this __on __yourself-__…"_

He reaches out a hand towards Malik, perhaps to brush away a greasy lock of hair from where it hangs against an open cut on the boy's forehead. Perhaps he does mean to be kind. But Malik needs none of that kindness. He wants none of it. The mere thought is poison dabbed in every wound.

He jerks himself up and swipes at the Templar so that the man falls back in surprise, hissing more like an animal than a human: is that not what he's become? Is that not what they think of him? A beast, dirty and injured, backed into a corner. But if that's what Malik is, then he's better for it—let him sprout fangs and claws. It's when they're surrounded that animals, or assassins, are at their most deadly.

"Don't touch me," he snarls. "Keep your fat fingers away."

The Templar says, "_So__ you__'__re __not __such __a __little __mouse.__" _He shakes his head. "_Your __kind __is__ so__ deluded. __You __think __you __are __strong,__ but __the__ light __blinds __you __from__ true __knowledge.__ Thank __your __old __master __for __that.__"_

From where Malik is, hunched and coiled, ready for another strike, that sounds a strange thing for a Templar to say. But the Christian is already on his feet, and the assassin does not care enough to make him stay.

_-i-_

Later they send a man in with food. Malik has been waiting in a simmering rage for that door to swing open, and lets loose with insults the minute there's someone else to hear them. "Bastards," he says, "sons of whoring bitches, either let me go or kill me and be done with it. I won't tell you anything. Are you listening? I'm _talking_ to you."

The soldier shrugs and puts a wooden bowl on the ground. "_Je __suis __désolé,__"_ he says with a grin, "_ce __n__'__est __pas __halal_." He leaves.

Left without anyone to hate Malik glares down at the slop in the bowl. It's…well, it's brown. Sort of oozy. Probably still alive.

He sighs and runs a scabbed hand across his eyes. Never mind the food; he'll have to eat it to keep himself going, though it's undoubtedly the same stuff they give to their dogs. Whatever humiliation they intend by feeding him this muck isn't enough to make him want to starve again. And anyway, assassins should be beyond falling for such obvious tricks. He'll survive off whatever they give him. He'll survive off dirt and air if need be. The trick of the matter is to survive.

Surviving, he acknowledges unhappily, is going to be hard if they don't replenish his water soon. But he's hesitant to ask lest someone kick over the bucket and waste what little he's got left. Keeping his wounds clean has used up so much of it, and taking little sips does nothing for his parched throat. The brown stuff in the bowl is salty and not much else. He _has_ to drink after that, not even caring when he sucks down a bug with the water.

Time goes by, and Malik waits. While his head is clear enough to do so he considers his captors: the lower-ranked soldiers don't appear to know he's anything more than another peasant hauled in for interrogation, what with the religious slurs and jokes about the food being _halal_. Only the Templar's entourage, the men who brought him here and that one pervert, know he's an assassin. And probably only the Templar really knows what being an assassin means. _Dai_ Faraj said once that Templars weren't Christian, that they attached themselves to the Western armies and played pretend. So what is this one after, if not killing in the name of various ill-tempered gods?

"The light blinds you from true knowledge," he'd said. Strange. The truth is what Al Mualim guards. Two men, bitter enemies, fighting over the same beliefs? It makes no sense. And yet here Malik sits, caught by forces he doesn't yet understand—another mistake among many he's made this past week, bumbling into a situation without first learning all he could. He can imagine Faraj's dismay. These mistakes will kill in the end, as the scholar would say.

_Al Mualim won't send more men to risk their lives over someone who's practically still a novice. He shouldn't have to, it isn't fair. We're supposed to do our own work. That's why Altair wanted to go in the first place._

Malik rests his chin on his drawn up knees, hurting and still hungry. _Altair,_ he says in silence, _you __kissed __me __by __the __campfire. __And __now __that __I__'__m__ here__…__are __you __worried __about __me __at __all?_

_-i-  
_

The Templar comes again, this time with the man Malik had shared a horse with, the one who speaks a little Arabic. In the same disjointed, stilted way he asks the same questions: "Where the fortress, you? We must know. The book, the fortress, you must tell these things."

Malik keeps his eyes blank and his expression clear of anything save a little basic fear. He doubts they're buying his hapless peasant routine but it doesn't hurt to try.

"The fortress," the soldier insists. "Where is?"

Malik shrugs.

"You assassin, right? Not illi…not dumb. Use that, ah. That brain you have."

Another shrug. The Templar is not pleased.

"_Quel est le problèm? You're speaking Arabic, so why doesn't he understand you?"_

"_Je ne sais pas. He might speak a different dialect."_

"_I've fought assassins before. They're trained, they know how to talk in more than their damned local slurring! Why is this one so stupid?"_

"_Maybe he's not really an assassin. They could have paid off some peasant brat."_

"_That's not how the Old Man works."_

"_But this one came back at us. He could have been the distraction while the real assassin got away. You've said a hundred times yourself how devious they are. Any one of the farmers we've passed would sell half their brood for coin."_

"_Parlez lui again. Make him understand you."_

"Listen, speak and we go away. Eh? That's what you want? So the rest of you, do we find…how do we find? We look anyway and find on our own, but this way you keep your head. _Oui?_"

Malik scratches at the back of his head, careful not to touch the tender, swollen spots.

"_We__'__ve __no __time __for __this,__"_ the Templar growls. "_Find__ someone __who __can __actually __speak__ Arabe.__"_

Malik waits patiently while the soldiers dart in and out of his room. They must search through the entire watchtower before a familiar face, and finger, comes skulking along. He looks no happier to be near Malik than Malik is to be near him: they stare at each other in mutual loathing. The assassin is pleased to see the louse has his finger buried beneath a wad of fresh bandages.

"_Demandez-lui_," the Templar says impatiently.

The pervert-soldier says, "We want to know where your hideout is. Where your master is. And where that other little rat went with the book you found in the army camp. If you want to keep breathing, you absolute waste of air, then answer the questions!"

Malik smiles at them. "_You__ should __have __just __said __as __much__ before,_" he says in bright, perfect French. "_I __guess __you__ guys __are __pretty __dumb.__"_

The room is so silent it's almost funny. Malik is pretty sure the Templar is about to start sobbing into his helmet. At that moment he fails to realize how concerned he should be—and how concerned he should stay when the Templar says in quiet resignation, "_As__ he __wishes __it__"_ and leaves the room. None of the soldiers so much as curses him for the trouble, though he'd been steeling himself for more kicks to the ribcage. All the gross one does is throw up his hands. And because Malik A-Sayf is still a young assassin, still learning, he doesn't know to be more than triumphant when his captors leave him alone and alive in the little stone room.

_-i-_

Later, just as Malik's about to doze off again, four men enter the room. One is the soldier who'd brought in the food, one is the Templar, and two are unfamiliar. One of the new men is wearing armor and cross, and carries his helmet under his arm: another Templar. He's surprisingly young, maybe mid-twenties if that, and his squinted eyes are swimming in a wide, round face. Malik spares a moment to wonder if all Templars are equally bald under the helmets. Lack of hair only makes this soldier look younger.

The last man is so decked out in medals and chainmail he can only be _le__ général._ The commander of the troops guarding the watchtower, no doubt. Maybe next King Richard himself will arrive. That'd be worth bragging rights, anyway.

"_Est-ce __lui?__"_ the general asks. At a nod from the helmeted Templar he turns to study Malik, who watches him back with sullen eyes. "How old are you?" he wants to know, in decent Arabic.

"Sixteen."

"Ach. Young." The general shakes his balding head. His blue eyes are tired and there are deep wrinkles lining his nose and thin-lipped mouth. "Why do you play these deadly games with my soldiers, boy? Why do Arabs insist on doing this to their young?"

"None of my family did anything to me," Malik snarls. "Ask your own damn men why there are so many orphans roaming around." He folds his arms across his chest. "Save your pity for someone who cares what you think. If you'd fight me like a man you'd see I don't need the sympathy. I'd slit your throat in seconds, assuming I could _find_ it underneath all your flab."

The low-ranking soldier swears at him, but the general just stands there. The bald Templar looks a little impressed.

"_Il__ est __têtu,__"_ says the first Templar. "_Stubborn__ and __brave.__"_

The general says, "What you are is foolhardy. This is an ugly war. Anything that leaves grown men fighting children is without valor."

"Then go back to where you came from," says Malik. "Take your bandit army with you."

"I don't think King Richard would appreciate that."

"He's an idiot. Him and Saladin both."

"Rash words. If you'd only mind your cursed tongue…" The general rubs his forehead. "Just remember, you demand this of me. If you would talk I would release you, I swear on my honor."

"You're a Templar. You don't have any honor."

"Aren't assassins warned against such hatred? I thought your master preached peace over vengeance."

"Maybe he does. I just don't give a shit." Malik's voice drops low. "Men wearing red crosses killed my parents—"

"And you assassins do the same with every victim. Don't fool yourself-…"

"Shut up. I'm not done." Malik says, "If all you'd done was burn my village down, I might have forgotten. I might've even forgotten what you did to my parents after a while. But you fuckers tried to kill my brother, too." He flexes his fingers, and for a second he is that enraged beast again, sharpening his claws. "I won't ever forgive you for that."

The general regards him in silence for a long moment. "If I were to give you your freedom right this instant," he says finally, "what would you do with it?"

Malik smiles with real malice. "I'd wait until you weren't ready," he says, "and then I'd gouge out both your eyes."

"_Beat __him __for __that,__"_ the low-ranked soldier protests. "_Knock __out __all __his __teeth.__"_

The general says softly, "You might be sixteen, but you're no child. So much hate in your eyes. I have children, real children, of my own. A boy your age and a girl a little younger."

"Someone should leave them homeless beggars. I bet you'd be surprised at how they'd turn out."

"I pray to God Almighty that they wouldn't turn out like you." The general, suddenly brisk, turns to the helmeted Templar. "_Go __ahead __and__ get __him __ready. __I __had__ to __see __for __myself __but __what __you __said __is __true__—__he__'__s __no__ pitiful __child __in __over __his __head. __He __isn__'__t __even__ human. __This __war__ has __us __fighting __demons. __I__ can__'__t __have__ sympathy __for __them_."

"I'm the demon?" says Malik. "I am?"

The general says again, "_Get__ him __ready. __Trying __to __appeal __to __his __better __nature __would __be __a __waste __of __time_."

Malik shrinks away from the reaching hands but there's nowhere to go. Seized by the Templar, he's yanked out into the hall, where the ceiling is lower. The general tells him to take his shirt off and surrounded by all those armed men he does so, jerky with the fresh discomfort of movement, heart beating with some unnamed dread. There's a little metal hook hanging from a beam in the ceiling; the Templar holds him steady while the low-ranked soldier first binds his hands in front of him with rope and then lifts his wrists up and ties them further, to the hook. The bald man looks as though he's taking notes. Malik is left suspended with his hands extended towards the ceiling. If he stretches his legs as far as he's able, his bare feet can just barely brush the floor.

The air is chilly against his newly bared skin. He shivers. Still he suspects that they mean to leave him like this until the pain in his shoulders and back becomes too much to bear, and that's no real threat. He's sure he can survive like this for at least a full day, and by then any hope the Templars could have of regaining their book would be dashed. His arms are already throbbing with the strain of his whole body, yes, but this sort of torture is basic stuff. Maybe his shoulders will end up popped out of joint. Malik is sure he can survive it.

The general turns towards the soldier. "_Wake __him __if __he __passes __out.__"_

Malik is mildly surprised. Do they still think him so weak? It will be hours and hours yet before this position is that agonizing. Assassins are trained to work through pain. He shifts a bit, toes scraping the ground, putting the soreness in his shoulders out of mind. This will certainly be difficult, but he's not at all afraid—

The soldier disappears down the hall for a moment. When he comes back, he's holding something so long it trails along the ground in a black, serpentine streak. A horse whip. Malik glances at it, confused, and looks away.

And then realizes.

His whole body contracts with the tremor that jolts through him now. His one good eye widens, his mouth drops. He tastes stomach acid at the back of his throat.

Oh, surely they won't…but that would outright kill him…he isn't _actually_ an animal, surely even these men wouldn't…only…only of course they would…

Malik tries to protest but his voice is gone, leaving him breathless with shock. To be struck with that! It would tear the skin right off his bones. Flogging isn't an unheard-of punishment; assassins who transgress in some serious way are occasionally beaten in such a fashion. But only a few times, ten or twelve at most. And with a dull object, with something that leaves welts and bruises. Not with a whip meant for animals much larger and stronger than any man could ever be. Not with something that might easily peel through skin and muscle to the skeleton underneath. It would hurt less to be hacked up by knives—at least the cuts would be cleaner!

The general has been watching Malik's reaction, watching as understanding dawns and the blood drains from his face. Watching as the assassin begins to jerk against his bonds, trying desperately to tear his wrists off the hook. "Stop when he agrees to cooperate," he says in Arabic, as if wanting to make sure Malik understands. "Or when the flesh is dripping from his spine." He repeats himself in French, speaking very slow.

The soldier nods.

The whole world is a tunnel leading towards the agony ahead. Everything is stripped of color and sound and it's just Malik and this faceless man approaching him with emotionless eyes. It would be better if he were smirking. It would be better if the air was filled with jeers for Malik to hide behind, it would be better if he could cloak himself in indignant anger and thus forget himself. But the soldier, but all the soldiers, are as unconcerned as a farmer prodding on his cart-horse. There was control in being thought of as an animal, before. There was some power there. Now he's been declawed: no predator is he but a helpless beast of burden.

The soldier moves closer, dragging the whip's edge along the ground. Malik twists about, failing to even loosen the rope, dry-mouthed and panting with fear. He hasn't been this scared since his village burned, but he still remembers it…its edge, its scent, the sour residue it leaves behind. And this time he can't run. This time he can't throw himself into guarding Kadar in order to move past the horror.

All he has now is his name.

"Fuck you," he screams to the general and the Templars, though they're all long gone. The bald one glanced over his shoulder as he left, as if intrigued, as if he wanted to stay. "Fuck you, I won't tell you _anything_. You hear me? I won't answer your stupid questions!" He twists again, kicking wildly, a deep ache settling into his shoulders. His head pounds. He has to fight to keep control of his bladder. "Do whatever you want, I'm not gonna answer anything. I'll kill all of you, I swear I will, no matter how long it takes!"

The whip swipes through the air, towards his back. Malik juts his chin out in maddened defiance, thinking that maybe it won't be so bad, that maybe such agonies work differently for assassins than for normal men. He's wrong, of course. The sound is the worst part, the dull, wet smack of leather against skin. Malik's body is wracked by tremors, and he yowls even before the shock fades. It feels as if they've sliced him wide open. It feels as if they're sticking knives in between the crevices of his spine.

Movement from behind him, a brief waft of air as the soldier draws back his arm for another blow. Malik drags up his shoulders, stretched with pain at his suspended arms and dangling legs, face shiny with sweat or tears. The second blow lacks the drama of the first but bears even more of the white-hot agony. His body seizes again of its own volition; he couldn't stay controlled if he tried. The noise out of his mouth is somewhere between screech and squeal. He tastes iron at the back of his mouth.

Again and again the lash falls. His back is mauled under the blows. He can't angle his head to observe the damage, can only feel the runny ooze of blood dripping down the curve of his spine, soaking into the hem of his leggings. That he can't see the welts and gashes, rash-red and mottled like claw marks kept from healing, makes it worse.

It's as if the lashes are striking against solid bone now, as if all the rest has been peeled away in layers of skin and bruised tissue. Flayed to bits like a sheep under the butcher's knives. Malik, wanting nothing but for the pain to _stop_, forces his mouth open and brays like the beast they've made of him:

"Fucking…_augh_…cowards! You think you can beat answers out of an assassin? You think—"

_Altair, Altair, was it worth it?_

_-i-  
_

He doesn't tell them anything. At least there's that small comfort.


	15. Part One: Chapter Fourteen

AN: There are a lot of exclamation points in this chapter. I'm sorry, writing gods.

Regarding Revelations: I'm taking my time with it, enjoying it a lot, failing miserably at den defense, bracing for Yusuf's assured demise because _everyone in these games dies_ and secretly sort of amused by how Maria bites it which might make me a terrible person. Sofia likes books, which makes her a-ok in my book, but one day I am going to write an Ezio Love Epic starting with Christina and continuing on with Rosa, Caterina, and local prostitutes 1 through 15.

I'm still disgruntled over Bowdenverse, but if they had to include it at least they were vague about Malik's demise. It's 'cause he's not really dead. When Altair goes to reclaim his Order, he's gonna find Malik already there, being the Assassin King and occasionally beating Abbas for the fun of it. I guess in this scenario that makes Altair the Queen…

I hope Malik still comes across as a strong character. Please tell me if he doesn't.

* * *

_**First Kills**_

"_Malik?__"_

_Kadar reaches out a hesitant finger to prod at Malik's shoulder until he stirs awake. He groans, shifts onto his side, opens one eye._

"_What's th' matter? Go t'sleep."_

"_Can't." The four-year-old scowls, drowning in the patched and baggy tunic that was once his elder brother's, hunched over on his thin mat. He can be tough to understand, even for Malik, because he still speaks in a mixture of real words and infant's babble. Not to mention he still sucks his thumb. _

_The moonlight spilling in from the back room's lone window shows a body chubby with lingering baby fat. Though many of Malik's friends in the village are scrawny and hollow-faced, older in experience than in years, the herd of sheep ensures that the A-Sayf children never go without._

_(Malik is not aware of this. He does not know that his village is poor, that hunger is common and drought a real threat. He knows only that he is eight, and half-awake, and unable to rest until he has tended to his brother first. No matter how sleepy he is.)_

"_Jus__' __lay__ down.__You __gotta __sleep __now.__"_

_Kadar says, whining, "Don' wanna."_

"_Speak normal." Malik yawns, bleary-eyed. "What're you talking about?"_

"_Heard a noise outside. Maybe it's gonna eat me."_

"_What?"_

"_I 'unno."_

_The brothers sit and consider this new threat for a while. Then a thoughtful Malik says, "But noises don't eat people."_

"_Sure?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_How d'you know?"_

"'_Cause the sheep make noise a lot but they only eat grass. An' people make noise but people don't eat each other." Kadar giggles and nods; relieved, Malik keeps going. "An' at the mosque there's noise but that's just Allah. An'…an' the well makes noises but that's just water at the bottom."_

"_You don' get eat by wells," Kadar agrees. "You know a lot of stuff."_

"_You know stuff when you're eight. Go back to sleep."_

_But Kadar slumps into a fresh pout. "Nuh uh. Don' wanna."_

"_Father will be angry if you wake up him up," Malik warns, jutting his chin in the direction of their sleeping parents, on the other side of the small room._

"_Not __gonna. __Don__' _wanna_.__" __He__ adds __hopefully,__ "__Malik__…__?__"_

_Malik__ groans __again __at __his __brother__'__s __unfinished __question.__ "__Nooo.__ I__ already _told _you, __you__'__re __too__ old __for __that.__" __But__ Kadar __is__ looking __at __him__ with __those __wide, __trusting __eyes, __staring __patiently __and __sucking __his__ thumb.__ "__Fine,__" __the __older __brother __huffs, __and__ slides __to __the __edge__ of __his __mat.__ "__But __just __tonight. __Ok?__ And __don__'__t __kick __me __in __your __sleep __again.__"_

_A delighted Kadar says, "Not gonna," and slides from his mat to curl up against Malik, knobby knees pressing into his brother's back under the thin blanket. He falls asleep almost the next moment, but as ever he's a fidgety sleeper and kicks at the backs of Malik's legs all night. _

_Malik lets it go._

_And__anyw_ay, there are f_oot_steps…

"_Brother?" says Kadar then, with blood running all down his arms. Their parents are gone. The house is alight. "Malik, I think the noise is back—"_

Malik jolts awake because there are footsteps, or perhaps because there aren't footsteps: either option is fraught with its own dangers now. He lives in a murky, shadowed world, where the sky is the roof of his cell and the earth is a cramped room of stone. When they first dragged him back he was sure he was dying; he thought of Abbas's frequent and creative depictions of the heretic's hell, wondering if he hadn't gone there after all. He babbled to his father, asking for understanding but not forgiveness, knowing his choices have always been his own. But slowly strength is drizzling back to him. Slowly he makes his body understand that it has not actually been chopped into bloody bits.

He sleeps a lot. His dreams are all bad ones and he has to remind himself that assassins don't believe in omens.

A soldier he is too fogged with pain to recognize comes with food, more brown stuff in a bowl. Malik sits up—a laborious task, one that has him nauseous with frustration—and forces the gunk down. It sits heavy in his stomach for a while, until at last he crawls into the stained corner and vomits it all back up. Long after he's gotten used to the smell, he can taste the sticky residue coating his tongue.

He's wearing nothing but torn leggings, not that he could wear a tunic if he had one right now. The room is damp, and Malik has to convince himself that he's still in Syria, that there's no way the Templars could have dragged him all the way to their soggy corner of the earth. The Templars have left him in this cell as if forgotten but he knows they haven't forgotten and he can't understand why they haven't finished him off yet. At this point he has nothing he could tell them even if he wanted to talk. He doesn't know any secret roads to Masyaf, and he has no idea where Altair has gone. Malik doesn't know what it takes to kill a man but he does know he'll soon find out.

Because he won't let them tie him up and whip him like an animal again. He's run out of all patience for playing the prisoner, he's tired of his fate being in someone else's control. Because there's a little piece of loose stone in this cell, a chunk protruding from the wall, too near the floor to be spotted at a glance. Because ever since Malik regained enough coherence to push past the agony of his wounds he's been working away at that little piece of stone.

Because he can tell that when it breaks off, its edge will be oh so very sharp…

Footsteps out in the hall. Malik folds his arms in order to hide his bleeding fingertips, rubbed raw by his efforts. The footsteps continue away, but this is a mere mirage of real luck. Malik has been lost and wandering enough in his life to know that there's no sense in trusting the waterfall dancing on the horizon line. Sooner or later the footsteps will stop by his cell, and the Templars, having ruled against his ever proving useful, will enter bearing swords.

Malik sets to work.

_-i-_

The grey light from the high window lightens, fades, darkens again. Meaningless. No way to tell how much time is passing, only that it's been an awfully long while since anyone came with brown gunk in a bowl. Twice Malik crawls back to the corner, once to relieve himself and once to dry-heave, his stomach empty of anything to throw back up. His back has mostly stopped bleeding, but sticky strands of green-white _something_ glisten in the deepest cuts. When he reaches around to feel the wounds his hand comes back damp with ooze.

And still time crawls by, unless he really has died and this really is hell. His sore fingers tug at the loose stone, but moving too fast drowns out his vision in flashes of deep red, and each time it takes him longer to regain clarity. Malik knows he's running out of time, though time seems not to move at all.

He pulls again at the stone. Footsteps pass his cell by, but the door doesn't creak open. Perhaps they've decided to leave him to starve.

Malik came close to starving once before. It isn't an ailment he plans to repeat.

_-i-_

Finally, after what feels like a year's worth of gritting his teeth against aching fingers and encroaching hunger, Malik pries the stone loose. He holds it carefully, in both hands, staring down at this makeshift weapon. The fat edge, where it broke from the wall, is crumbling and he's afraid the whole thing might crack down the middle—but the other edge narrows to a single point. A single sharp point.

Malik is too well-trained to be naïve. He isn't expecting to be the victor of any dramatic battle, not with his stomach empty and his back still oozing pus and blood. Not with his disorienting headache, with the world tilting when he stands.

But…if he can only be prepared when a soldier comes to kill him, or else to drag out his starved corpse…if he can only hold out that long…! Malik feels the heft of the rock and tests out a jab at the air. As long as he's prepared, when the soldier comes he can thrust it at the man's eye or throat or nose. It doesn't need to be a fatal blow, not even a dangerous one: the element of surprise and the moment of discomfort will be enough. Malik will have at least something of a chance at slipping out of the cell. Whatever happens after that is so unpredictable he doesn't bother to plan it out.

Of course, he's assuming that only one soldier will enter the cell. They could very well send in a bunch of men, even a bunch of Templars. In that case, well…

Malik shrugs one shoulder and feels the hot rush as the wounds on his back are stretched taut. He'll be lucky to throw himself at the one enemy without his legs caving in underneath him. If they send in more than one, he's got no chance at all.

(If he can't escape, he thinks, he'll kick and bite and scream until they have no choice but to bash his head in. If he can't escape them he'll choose his own death and die fighting, die laughing at these pale-faced bastards who couldn't beat a thing out of him but jeers.)

_-i-_

He falls into a restless slumber-that-isn't, hunched against the wall, coiled into himself, rising in and out of surreal hallucinations. To keep himself lucid Malik has taken to prodding at one of the many red-flared welts along his back; in some odd way the burst of pain is refreshing, and jerks him back into reality. But while sleeping his mind is overtaken by the stress of everything and he is lost in dark tunnels, running aimless through the muddy corridors while wolves snarl at every turn.

And then he's awakened again by footsteps moving down the hall. He waits, listening: they're slow, and so quiet he thinks at first he might be hearing things. But, no…his ears have been trained to hear the sounds of others skulking about. Malik, as an assassin, knows to trust his instincts. (After all, his original instinct was to tell Altair that inventing a mission without their Master's guidance was a _really __terrible __idea_.)

He puts any doubts out of mind and slips over to crouch by the door, moving slow himself, stymied at how undependable his body's become. Thus far the footsteps he's heard in passing have been the loud stomping of boots on stone. They've all gone past Malik's cell, as if he isn't worth remembering. But this new person is slinking down the hall, coming closer—and closer—and then fiddling with the locked cell door—

There's a grunt and a scuffling from the hall, and Malik curls his lower lip in derision. Stupid fucking Templars can't even figure out their own prisons. Finally the door creaks open, and as it does Malik clenches his makeshift weapon in one hand and forces his body into a crouch, ignoring how the position makes him lightheaded, because the last thing any assassin would do is let discomfort decide his abilities…

With the door open halfway the intruder slips inside. Malik draws in his breath: he's seen the glint of weak light on the steel of a drawn sword. Before the man can use it, before he even has time to look around Malik tackles his legs from behind and they both fall to the ground. The sword clatters across the floor, out of reach. The agony is so tremendous Malik can't fathom it ever subsiding. The person he has pinned is swiping at him so he brings down the stone hard; at the last second he's shoved off, the man too strong and slippery to hold and the stone cracks against not his eye or nose but the side of his mouth. Blood squirts, the man yelps, but it's not enough damage, not nearly enough, and already the man is shoving Malik off and the stone is crumbling to powder, god_damn_ it, nothing but useless _dust_ now.

There are hands on Malik's shoulders and he thrashes to break free, blinded by anger and maybe fear. The man gets to his knees as if to grab for the sword and Malik lunges at him again, desperate, ready to tear this man to shreds with his bare fingers. It's impossible to tell who's beating who as they fight with limbs so closely entangled, Malik afraid that the man will get to the sword if he's shoved away for even a second. The man hits him on the side of the head, not hard at all, and shouts, "Will you stop!"

Malik won't stop. Malik isn't going to be stopped by _them_. The stone is gone so he fumbles for a lock of brown hair and tugs it, hitting his target across the face with his other hand. The man cries out, but still it's obvious he's well-trained, he's _good_: he moves so fast now, even with his back against the ground, dodging every punch Malik tries to land. Bastard doesn't even look _winded_.

Suddenly there's an elbow smashing into Malik's ribcage. Again the blow isn't actually all that hard but in his current condition it's enough to knock him back. He grunts, starts to stand, but the man is too quick for that. He leaps onto Malik, sitting right on his stomach to hold him still, pinning his shoulders down with both hands—and in the process pinning Malik's back full against the floor…

The pain is all-consuming. The assassin screams with it and lurches up, breaking out of the other man's hold and smashing his forehead against the other man's chin in the first successful headbutt he's ever thought to try. His attacker tumbles backwards, apparently strong enough not to be phased when his head hits the hard floor, and clamps a hand to his nose. The blood gushes through his fingers and across his already-bloody mouth. Malik tries to make his body push forward, to strike while the man's unprepared, but he can't. He hurts so badly he thinks he might vomit. All he has left to puke up is stomach acid and he can feel it burning in his throat, but the last thing he wants to do now is look weak, even if he is, and he clenches shut his eyes to concentrate on holding himself together—

"Damn it, Malik!"

Malik looks up.

The figure complains in a voice muffled from his trying to staunch his bleeding nose, "Stupid beggar boy! I think you _broke_ it. It's nice to know you're alive, but I think you broke my nose with your…your _face_. What kind of assassin fights with his _face_?"

Malik stares in mute incomprehension. The other man stares back.

The other man is Altair.

"And I dropped my sword because of you. It better not be dented, or…" Altair, never comfortable with happy moments, lowers his hand and his eyes as he says, "Found you, anyway."

Malik sits there and tries to get his mouth to work. "You…Altair? You're here?" Just to make sure: "Am I delirious again?"

Altair snaps, "Does my nose look like a mirage to you?"

It's such an Altair Ibn La'Ahad thing to say. Any doubts of this being real are vanquished right then and there. Malik feels dizzy.

And the other assassin must see him sway, because suddenly Altair is next to Malik with a hand against his shoulder, propping him up. "Careful," he says. "I'd rather not have to carry you back to Al Masyaf."

"But what…" Malik says, still reeling, "But what are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious? Don't waste time on such stupid questions."

"I thought…how…there are soldiers everywhere. How did you even…"

"I'm an assassin, aren't I?" Altair smirks with pride. "I rode after you. There were plenty of prints in the sand to follow. Then I waited in the hills outside the village until the sentries dropped their guard. I knocked out four of them and no one ever saw me coming. Stupid Templars. Didn't even bother to hide their trail."

"They left it on purpose," Malik mumbles, still winded from the fighting. "They wanted to get their hands on you. It was another trap."

"Then it was a bad one. My only concern was whether or not I was wasting my time. I knew you'd break out on your own eventually." He touches his split and swollen lip, proud of Malik now, which is…weird. "There was a guard in the hallway you would have had to get past, though. I guess it's a good thing I came."

"I don't understand-…"

"Neither do I. We were so close to the watchtower when you turned around. It's like you wanted to be caught!"

Malik hesitates. "I was going to outrun them and reach Masyaf from a different road."

"But we were doing just fine on the road we were on. Are you really so stupid? Why would you throw yourself into the arms of Templars? Thanks to you I broke my nose."

"Your nose isn't broken."

"How do you know?"

"Because mine is." Malik hasn't failed to notice how Altair's gaze refuses to linger on his swollen face, his crooked nose, his bruised eyes. Using the bad light as an excuse he doesn't let himself notice much more than superficial scratching. The older boy doesn't want to see the injuries, perhaps because he can easily picture himself wearing them. Perhaps because he never thought to picture Malik wearing them at all.

"…Just a few bruises," he says finally, his tone all of a sudden brusque. "You'll be fine. I thought you'd be worse off after three days with them."

"It's been three days?"

"Of course."

Malik looks at his scratched, aching hands, amazed despite himself. Only three days? And yet he survived for three days! He's as proud as he is dismayed. "I hope Al Mualim isn't too angry," he comments. "You having to risk your life to save mine."

"I told you, I didn't have to risk anything. I simply didn't feel like waiting for you to break out on your own. Why should you get to vanquish the enemy while I hid behind bushes?"

"Sure," says Malik. "I'm sure that's what you thought." He frowns. Altair's pity he doesn't need, nor his excuses. Malik was overpowered and taken prisoner. It can't be made less shameful and he won't stand for Altair's sneering making it worse.

Only…

"It was. I wasn't about to be worried over you."

Only Altair doesn't sound as though he's mocking or putting on an act. After all their years as enemies and friends, Malik can tell when he's being his usual scoffing self and when, on rare occasion, he lets actual human feelings come through. Hard as it is to believe, right now the Son of None sounds as earnest as Kadar ever does.

"You aren't Abbas. You actually know what you're doing, usually, though I still don't understand why you turned around to begin with. Bloodthirst doesn't fit you like it should." Altair's fingers twitch in hungry desire against Malik's shoulder. "But I knew you'd be fine. You had to be." He breathes out through tight lips, "You and I can't ever let the scum of the earth get in our way."

Malik is silent. Is this concern coming because Altair truly holds dear their friendship? No…no more than that kiss by the campfire came from sweet, innocent love. How could two male assassins, two male _anythings_, ever have such womanly desires? Altair just doesn't want to admit that Malik is fallible, because to admit that would be to admit his own failings. Altair doesn't like others touching what he's claimed as his own.

_He__'__s __decided__ I__ understand __him. __He__'__s __decided __we__'__re __supposed __to __be__ attached. __I__ don__'__t __know__ if __he__'__s __right, __but __it __would __have __been __nice __for __him__ to __ask _my _thoughts __on __the __matter __first._

Still…Altair did come. Whatever his reasons, whatever twisted motivations float around in that swollen head of his, he did come back for his Brother despite all the risks. Not every assassin would have done that.

"Come on. We should leave quickly."

"Is your sword dented?"

"It's fine."

"Then give me a weapon. One of your throwing knives. In case we run into guards on the way out, because there are a lot of Templars around here. You got lucky if you really did slip in without them noticing."

Altair raises an eyebrow in that natural, smooth way of his: equal parts mockery and lofty acquiesce. "Where are you going to put them without a sheath?"

"I'll have to carry them, I guess."

"You'll cut your hands open before you hurt anyone else."

"And what would your suggestion be? My scabbard is strapped to some fat Templar at the moment."

"The guard out in the hallway isn't using his. Actually he isn't using his armor, either. His tunic might fit you."

"I don't think so."

"You want to walk out into the desert half-naked?" Again that eyebrow rise. And Altair's smirk is even more distracting, and irritating, when bleeding. With his free hand he flicks one long finger along a non-bruised part of Malik's cheek. He does it so quickly and so casually his finger's gone by the time Malik has the clarity of mind to drive an elbow into the side of his head. "You'll roast alive," he says.

Malik still drives an elbow into the side of Altair's head, though. He is in _no __mood._

He works his way to his feet. For once it really is easy to push past the pain, because there's very little he wants more than to get out of this stinking cell once and for all. Altair is there to steady him, a faint presence on one side, a hand against his shoulder, but no more. And this is a good thing, because nothing good can come of insinuating weakness.

They move out of the cell, Malik breathing hard, Altair's lip still bleeding. Once Malik is sure he can hold his own weight, Altair walks ahead to lead the way. The light is a little better in the hall, thanks to lit torches, and it pools around the unconscious body of a Christian soldier, sprawled at the far end. Not a Templar, not someone Malik recognizes. Still he doesn't want to linger—he'd hate to be spotted by more soldiers, or worse, collapse in front of Altair again—and so he frowns when the older boy drops to his knees by the man and starts tugging at his armor.

"Leave it," he says, wanting to lean against the wall but afraid he might brush his back against it in the process. "Assassins don't loot."

"I'm not looting," says Altair without looking up. "He's not much bigger than you. His tunic should fit."

Malik bristles. "Forget it. I already told you—"

"You're such a fool. You can't walk outside like that. The sun was rising when I first got inside. By now it must be almost noon."

"I'll manage. Can we just go?"

"First you let yourself be captured for no reason, now you want to scald yourself on the way home. What poison did they slip into your drink?"

"Oh, enough, we don't have time for…"

Altair says, "You're an idiot," and stands up. In his hands is the soldier's tunic, long and shapeless, with sleeves that must hang past the elbow. "Get dressed. He's got a belt you can stick the throwing knives in."

But Malik won't be swayed. He has a good reason, of course, a very good reason, but Allah knows the drama Altair would cause if he knew that-…that, well…it's just that it's hard to think right now, Malik's headache is so damn _stubborn_, but he knows Altair should be kept unaware of certain injuries even if he's too dazed to know exactly why. Although it's true that exposing so much bare skin in the desert is a decently terrible idea, there's not much of a choice, really, and he'd explain that to Altair if there was even a chance of the older boy not turning into a _djinn_ with anger in the process…

But Altair isn't one to let others make decisions for him. He grabs Malik by the shoulder, snarls, "Fine, let me dress you like an invalid," and tries to get the shirt over his head. Every sore nerve in Malik's body twinges at the thought of cloth sticking to his back, to those lash-marks weeping fluid. He yowls like a cat—scratches like one too—loses his balance in the process and sits down hard. Altair follows suit.

"What," he begins. Stops. Raises his chin so that Malik can see the burn in his eyes and in his clenched jaw. Grabs Malik's shoulder with one iron hand and turns him around. Malik tries to lock his body into place out of principle, not because he expects to be able to break out of the Son of None's hold. It's hard to dissuade Altair from acting on his instincts.

Altair, in the flickering torch light, looks at the myriad welts and gashes and patches of inflamed skin. Malik sits, quiet and morbidly curious despite himself. All he's been able to see of his back is what came to view when he craned his neck around. Altair has a much better vantage. The light's better, too.

The silence lasts for about a full minute.

"Look," Malik says, to break it. "Maybe if we tear off part of the tunic I can put it on. If we tear off some of the back. Or, look, maybe…"

"Bro-ther," Altair does not say. He snarls the word out instead. He massacres it. "This is what they've done."

"Yes," Malik agrees, "which is why I'm glad to be going."

"This is what they've done. To you."

"The kicks to the head weren't much fun either. You know, this soldier's probably going to wake up soon."

"He's the one."

"Not him, actually—"

"Him. All of them. This is what they've done."

"I wish you'd talk like a normal man."

"You son of a bitch!" Altair jerks him around again, so that they're left glaring at each other. The older boy looks angrier than Malik's ever seen him, cheeks mottled with high spots of color and not a little nausea.

"Stop it. Calm down. It was bad for a while but it doesn't hurt as much now. Or I just got used to it. Either way your dramatics won't…"

But Altair rages right over him, teeth bared, lips drawn back so tight that the gash along his lip is reopened. Blood that had been tempered starts flowing again. "This is what they did to you. This is what you _let_ them do!"

And with a start, the younger assassin realizes that Altair isn't just angry at the Templars. He's saving a heap of the blame for one Malik A-Sayf.

"You idiot! And you call me the novice? Look at you. Look at what they've done. I could fit half my _fist_ into some of these wounds."

"Stop _shouting_ unless you want to give them the chance to practice their aim on your back too."

"Always scolding me. Always annoyed with what I'm doing. And then you go and offer yourself as _target __practice_."

Malik loses his patience. "What the hell did you expect to find?" he barks. "They're Templars. They're our enemy. We know what they do to their prisoners. No one would ever even tell me exactly what they did to _Dai_ Faraj. And now you stroll in as the hero—and fine! I admit it! I was weak enough to need the help. But what did you think was going to happen? Aren't you going to be a Master Assassin some day? You have to…you have to suffer for that first."

"Yes, suffer in battle. Suffer when they take your finger away. But this? You let this happen for no reason. You were weak for no reason."

"Go screw yourself," says Malik. "You think I asked for it? You think I put the whip in their hands and begged them to strike harder? _Shem__ et__ duat_! I suffered through what they did because it was either that or betray the Brotherhood. I was about to kill myself fighting them off before I told them a thing. And you call me weak? While you strutted in like a damned peacock, playing pretend!"

"I came to rescue you. Don't act as if I left you to die. It isn't my fault you…"

"This whole thing was your idea!" Malik shouts. "This whole goddamn mission was your brilliant plan."

Altair digs his fingers against the floor, shoulders hunched. "I asked you to come," he says. "I didn't force you. I didn't intend for you to be hurt."

_You__ didn__'__t__ force __me?_ Malik thinks back to that moment by the river, to the older boy's hands clenched around his shoulders, to the sharp and tangled energy holding them both in thrall. "No," he says slowly. "You didn't. I'm not blaming you." But that's too easy; giving Altair that grace is too easy. "But don't you dare blame _me_, either."

Altair spits, "You turned around. We could have made it back to Masyaf. We were almost _there_. But you turned around and ran right for them. And then they caught you and did _this_ to you and-…"

"And what?"

He sneers. It makes his handsome face look angular and ugly. "And you gave yourself to them. You're mine. I told you that before. You're mine but you put yourself where I couldn't reach you. And then they did this."

"I'm not yours," Malik says. He no longer knows what emotion it is that has him shaking where he sits. "I'm not anybody's."

The sneer widens. "Except Kadar's."

Malik sighs. He was foolish to think he could avoid this for long. Now the real damage will happen.

So be it.

"Yes," he says. "Except Kadar. I never pretended otherwise. I never told you otherwise. Kadar will always have my first loyalty. And if you were really concerned about me…and not just the part of me that interests the almighty drowned Eagle of Masyaf…you'd accept that."

Altair asks, "What is there to accept?"

"Even if he's an assassin, even if he's trained, I have to protect him. No matter what. That's my responsibility."

"So protect him. Keep him soft like some girl. Do whatever you'd like with him. But that doesn't explain why you turned around."

"I turned around because the Templar soldiers were right behind us. Because there might not have been assassins at the watchtower, and if they weren't there the first person we'd run into would have been our lookout. Would have been him."

Altair says, very calm: "You let the likes of this dog torture you because your brother might have been hurt otherwise."

"I had to."

"That's the choice you made."

"It wasn't a choice."

"_El__ khara__ dah?_ You wouldn't have done it for any of your other Brothers."

Malik murmurs, "I might have done it for you."

"Don't lie." Altair leans in, eyes still bright with anger under the cowl. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm lying now? Who was it who pulled your carcass from the river?"

"You know that's not what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't know."

"Any real assassin would risk death for a hundred reasons, for his Brothers or his mission or his Master. But you didn't die. You _languished._ Would you have done that for Rauf or Abbas?"

"Do we have to have this conversation now? Can this not wait until after we're back in Masyaf?"

"No," says Altair, "it can't wait."

Malik, at the end of all tolerance and far too annoyed for control, snarls: "Fine. Why don't you just _test_ me, then? We'll see how much I'll suffer for you."

And though he hasn't yet had time to sort through the detritus of their first kiss, he takes the second from Altair with no foreboding. Maybe there should be some. Maybe there is damage here that he's too concussed to see. But Altair's lips are burning hot against his own. The older boy shifts without opening his eyes, finds places to put his hands that won't hurt any open wounds. Even his kissing is possessive: his head tilted forward, his tongue halfway down Malik's throat. Though Malik was the one to demand the kiss already Altair is taking control. Really, he's as much desert as he is man—so alluring, so unexpected, and sometimes so carelessly malicious.

When they separate Altair says only, "I'll tear the back of the tunic off. Put it on. And take the belt for the throwing knives."

Malik does so, adjusting the belt so that it sits low on his hips. After all the dramatics the tunic doesn't even fit; it's far too baggy and slides right down his shoulders, especially once a big hunk of cloth has been ripped away. Instead Altair wraps it about his waist and chest, turning it into a wide, makeshift bandage that leaves his shoulders bare. The application is just shy of pure horror, but at least it's tight enough now that the cloth won't rub against the lash-marks.

"You'll still roast alive," Altair observes, and with the soldier's under-shirt sets about fashioning a weird sort of turban that Malik absolutely refuses to wear. He's seriously injured but he isn't _blind_. For all that Altair knows how to look impressive in anything he puts on, he knows very little about practical skills such as 'how not to dress like a mocking caricature of the very people whose lands you're about to ride through'.

"We'll ride fast," Malik says, when the turban issue threatens to become yet another argument. "We have to, sun or no sun," he adds, mindful of how the world is still inclined to sway. Not to mention how his back burns and goes numb in turn. He knows that, were he to remove the bandage-tunic after even these few moments, it would pull away sodden with pus, droopy with clumps of flesh.

He's been like this for days and there hasn't been enough water nor strength in his limbs to wash. If infection should set in, he knows it will rot more than just his back—and the last thing he wants is to watch all the bones of his body dissolve. Death long after the fact from inflamed injuries is not an uncommon fate for assassins. Past a certain point even the Brotherhood's healers are useless. Malik has seen men waste away from infection…it's all the torture of dying in battle with none of the quickness and none of the honor.

They need to return to Masyaf quickly. Malik isn't ready to die that way.

"How far are we from the village?" he asks as they continue down the hall. His gait is more limp than walk and silently Altair offers a supporting arm. Silently Malik accepts it. "I was blindfolded when they brought me here."

"Not far. Another half a day."

"Stupid of them. All they wanted was a secret way into Masyaf, and this whole time they could have just marched to the front gates."

"They would have been decimated there," says Altair, and Malik agrees. After a pause, the older boy continues, "Your brother would have been fine if we'd kept going. Others would have come to his aid."

"Maybe. I couldn't promise it." Malik expects this to draw a smirk, but all Altair does is nod. Suspicion dawns. "You didn't tell him, right?" he demands. "You didn't tell him I was captured? He gets so ahead of himself, it's like he doesn't realize he's only twelve. If you went and worried him…"

Altair says, "Are you feverish?"

"What?"

"Your wounds. Are they playing with your mind? You're not making sense."

"How am I not making sense? I only asked what you told Kadar when you reached the village. Unless you didn't see him? But he wouldn't stop being our look-out." Malik grits his teeth. "You _did_ tell him. What did he say? You better have stopped him from doing anything stupid. And Al Mualim, how angry was the Master?"

"Brother," says Altair, speaking very slow, "I have no idea what Kadar and Al Mualim are thinking. Probably one's as worried at our being gone for so long as the other is annoyed."

"But didn't you see them? Who did you give the book of lists to, then?"

"I never went back to Masyaf. How could I have gone there and still followed your trail? Even an hour's worth of wind would have covered the Templars' tracks."

"You…but…what?"

"I haven't been back to the village since we left it together six days ago. When you decided to experience the hospitality of our enemy I followed after, as I said."

"I thought you went back first to-…" Malik stops walking and cranes his neck to look at the other boy. Altair, still helping to keep him steady, gazes back with one eyebrow raised. "But the _book_. Where is it if not at Masyaf with Al Mualim?"

"Where I left it. If you weren't monopolizing my arm I'd take it out of the pouch to show you."

"You mean you…you followed the Templars, you snuck into their watchtower and knocked out their guards, and the whole time you had the book with you? This thing that _Dai_ Faraj died over, the whole reason I've been the Templars' personal whipping boy for three days…you had something as valuable as that book on your person and you _walked__ back__ into __enemy__ territory__ with__ it?__"_

"Well," says Altair. "Obviously. What else should I have done?"

Malik feels faint all over again. "I'm going to be sick," he announces. "I really think I am going to die."

"Oh, sure, die now," Altair says, sourly. "Leave me to explain your body to a hysterical Kadar. Thanks a lot."

"I can't believe you brought the book here. You could have been captured too. Then we'd have risked our lives for nothing!"

"But I wasn't captured."

"But you could have been."

"But I wasn't."

"That's not the point!"

"Clearly not. The point is…"

"You don't know what the point is, novice."

"The point is, you're rather whiny when you're feverish. It's amusing. Like watching a grumpy cat."

"Don't look at me with that leer in your eyes. And I'm disgusted, not—_amusing_?"

"Would you prefer 'endearing'?"

"_Bouse __tizi_!"

_-i-_

Leaving the watchtower is easier than it should be. It helps that Altair is able to pick his way through the narrow halls and locked doors. Malik on his own would have been wandering without direction, but Altair has even memorized which soldiers patrol the building at what time. He says that he's stolen another horse because the farmer's beast was so exhausted and terrified he didn't trust it to survive until Masyaf. The new horse is trained and well-fed; it will be able to bear them both, he's made sure of that.

Malik says, "Well, you're not totally useless," and is surprised when Altair grins as though it were a compliment. In some odd way maybe it was.

The doors leading out of the tower are wooden and massive, but also wide open; two guards are sprawled out at their base, one slumped half-outside and moaning. The strike of sunlight burns, and Malik winces: amazing how dark and damp it is inside this old heap of stone, when outside there aren't even clouds to hide the sun.

"Someone could have seen the bodies," he tells Altair, still too blinded to be able to see outside. "Where did you leave the horse you stole?"

"Outside the village. No one will spot it. Besides, they'd have left a sentry if they'd found these idiots. There really aren't a lot of soldiers here."

"There were as of three days ago. I could hear them."

"Some might have gone out on patrol." Altair frowns. "They're on the move again."

"Let other assassins worry about that. Did you say we're in a village?"

"A small one. And ruined. The only houses still standing are past the watchtower, and guarded well. Must be where the officers sleep."

_Le__ general._ Malik sucks in his breath. "We should leave quickly," he says. "There are at least two Templars here and we won't be able to fight them off."

"So you say," Altair scoffs, but he's just as quick to dart out of the massive doors. They cross a wide courtyard of hard-packed dirt, stunted bushes sprouting wherever there's a hint of shade. In the distance are a few huts and a few more piles of rubble, but whatever became of this village's inhabitants, they aren't here now. The sounds of soldiers and horses are quite loud, but the watchtower is a tall one and the enemy is on the other side. Altair has the horse waiting beyond some bushes and a pile of molding hay. Malik feels more secure when he can turn around and see something between him and the Templars' lair.

Altair goes to ready the horse. "Give me a moment and I'll help you on," he says. Malik appreciates the effort. He moves forward to position himself and as he does so he hears footsteps from behind them. He and Altair turn at the same time. Coming through the thicket of bushes, a little further down from where the assassins slipped through, two men spot the horse they hadn't realized was lost.

Two men: the Templar in the red helmet and the low-ranked soldier who'd wielded the whip. Malik freezes when the latter man sees him and yells out. His fingers twitch and Altair's throwing knives are heavy at his side, but he can't force himself to move. Again there is the sour taste of fear and stomach acid rising in his throat. The soldier is running at him, to kill him or drag him back, and he swears at his limbs to work even as he knows they never will—

Then Altair is in front of him, twisting around and pulling free his sword in one smooth movement. In the split second rush of action he catches Malik's eye and holds the moment…no mocking there but calm reassurance, it fits him even as it turns him into someone else…and then he smirks, wide and wild. Delighted. He turns from Malik and launches himself at the soldier before the man has a chance to prepare.

There's oddly little flourish in Altair's strike. He grips his sword in both hands, pushes it up to bang aside the soldier's attempted swing, and finally thrusts at the man's exposed chest. Malik isn't close enough to hear the crunching bone, to hear the way the man's cry gets caught and curdled in his throat. He isn't close enough to be hit with the spray of blood that follows but Altair is. It must be more than he was expecting because he lets his sword drop along with the soldier, the blade still imbedded in the man's chest, though assassins are taught to mind their weapons well.

The soldier tries to curl up but can't. He gurgles and twitches and there's a distinct rattling as his lungs try to work within a broken chest. Then he dies. The silence is worse than the gurgles.

Malik hurries over. Altair is gazing down at his victim as if utterly unattached, as if it isn't his sword buried practically to the hilt. The front of his tunic is sprinkled all down the front with blood.

"Altair, you-…" Malik stops at his side. "…You _killed_ him."

Altair's shoulders jerk. The older boy pulls his gaze along until it's aimed at Malik: his eyes are hard but steady. He keeps licking at the cut along his lip. He still doesn't seem to notice the body at his feet. He says, quite calm, "Finish saddling up the horse. I'll be right over."

"Ah, yes…where are you…?"

But Altair walks away from him without another word. Malik watches him go. Watches him duck behind the hay mound. It's only when the first sounds of retching reach him that he turns to trudge back to the horse. The soldier's body he ignores.

_First__ kill,_ he thinks, tugging blindly at the saddle to keep his hands busy. _It__ wasn__'__t __supposed __to __feel __like __this. __Altair, __why __did __you__ have __to __pick __this __moment __to __be__ a__ human __being?_

And Malik, lightheaded Malik, Malik who couldn't push past the memory of the whip to fight alongside his Brother—is this violence Malik's fault, then? Does he bare the blame for Altair?

_Don't look so frail. Come back here and mock me for freezing, come back and brag about how easy that was. Come back and tell me that everything's fine._

"The horse is ready," he says, too faint for anyone to hear. He won't be able to climb up himself, he'll have to wait for Altair to help him on, but at least the horrid noises from behind the hay stack have stopped. Now there's no sound but for a faded scuffling. "Altair," he says, louder now. No answer but for the scuffling, rising in volume as if answering his call. Malik raises an eyebrow and takes one step forward—

That's when he remembers the Templar.

Something spasms in his stomach but before he can act hay scatters and someone yells. Altair stumbles through the straw flurry…is _shoved_ through, landing off-balance and sprawled on his side. His cowl has been yanked off his head, his pale face is scratched. But not all the damage is on his end, for when the Templar follows after him he does so without a helmet. Altair must have managed to knock it off. The Templar's eyes are a muddy brown and wide with anger, but his face is disturbingly normal. If even this greatest of enemies can wear the visage of a normal man, how will it ever be possible to spot the monsters in the crowd?

Altair starts to climb to his feet but the Templar is on him before he can manage. Using his greater weight to hold the boy still, the man clamps both gloved hands around his neck and squeezes hard. Altair kicks out, tries to pry the hands off his neck, bares his teeth in a helpless snarl. The Templar leans on his wrists for more pressure, while Altair gapes, eyes huge in his head, struggling for a breath that won't come.

"_Die __quickly,__"_ the Templar says. Then the first throwing knife burrows into the jelly of his left eye.

His shoulders lurch back. His expression is incredulous, and grows more so as the blood begins to gush down his face. Maybe it's that blatant shock, after everything Malik's endured, that provokes him into throwing the second and third knives. They hit the man's cheek and throat with perfect precision. The Templar screams, his face bedecked with knives.

Malik is too angry to give a damn. He's had enough of being insulted.

Relief comes in the sound of Altair's hoarse cursing. "Get him _off_," he says, still stuck underneath the dying man as he convulses. Malik darts over to pull him free.

"_Ebn __el__ sharmoota_," Altair swears, rubbing his throat. "Son of a whore! Is he dead yet? If he isn't I'd like to cram his own shit down his throat."

Malik says, "He thought we were weak. He didn't think he had anything to worry about. He was _surprised_ when the first knife hit him!"

"Screw his mother. Let him choke on his blood."

"He beat me half to death and I still killed him. But I bet he died thinking I was weak."

"How arrogant," says Altair, and actually smiles. Malik doesn't know what else to do but force through a grimace of his own.

Two bodies. Two first kills. Already the flies are gathering close.

The assassins ride for home.

_-i-_

Malik remembers little of the return voyage, save for Altair's arms proving a makeshift barrier, as the older boy holds the reins and the younger slumps in the saddle, trying not to fall off. With his head bobbing he dozes, if 'dozing' is the right word for the slide into the amorphous muddle between cognizance and death. At least he doesn't dream. Every now and then Altair shakes him awake. They both know why he's doing it but they both refuse to acknowledge when he does. The improvised bandage is already soaked through.

The countryside blurs past: the scrublands, the ancient arches, the ramshackle villages. The watchtower, where Malik is too tired to look for fellow assassins. Is the tower guarded? Has he gone through such agonies for nothing? In the end it doesn't matter. He is a killer now—him and Altair both. First kills are usually celebrated with, if not fanfare, then a grimmer version of celebration. They are meant to be things of honor, proof of the dividing line between novice and assassin, boy and man.

Killing Templars is supposed to leave the assassin feeling triumphant, but all Malik feels as they reach the gates of Masyaf is a distinctly familiar sense of degradation. They are not striding through the gates, and there is no Master waiting there to announce the increased rank that first kills always bring. Malik can barely walk, much less strut about, and Altair…

Altair's hands are still soaked and twitching with someone else's blood. His sword, pulled free from the soldier's body with an audible and nauseating squelch, is still wet inside its scabbard because its owner refused to wash it clean. The Son of None keeps picking at his lip, pulling at the skin there, digging a dirty fingernail deep inside the cut so that the wound is unable to heal. It's almost as if he wants it to scar.

(Malik would just as rather it fade away. Malik would rather his back heal without marring and his mind scab over the memory of this last week. Even over the kissing. Especially over the kissing. He would rather they walk from this unchanged, prepared for the second kill, which should really be the first.

But he knows there's no chance of that happening. He knows he will carry his reminders, if not in memory than in whorls of discolored flesh.)

At the stables Altair dismounts without a word. Malik somehow slides himself off the horse without falling flat on his face. There are a couple other assassins there, older journeymen just back from a mission, and they stare at the two new arrivals without bothering to hide their shock. Even the guards at the gate turn from their posts to watch Altair and Malik trudge inside.

"Oh-! Malik!"

Kadar leaps up from where he'd been sitting, crouched fretfully on a bench just inside the gates. He scatters civilians in his haste, and Malik braces himself to hide the guaranteed pain of a hug, but at the last moment his brother skids to a stop. "You're back! I, I was so worried. You said you'd be back in three days! What took you so long? What happened?"

Malik tries to smile. Funny how he's only now noticing that his little brother isn't so little anymore. Kadar might even be taller of the two. From nowhere he's sprouted a deeper voice, a strong chin. "It's alright," the elder brother murmurs, without knowing what he means.

"Ah, I'm so glad you two have returned." Kadar turns his anxious smile from Malik to Altair and back. "When you didn't come back like you said you would, I thought maybe…"

"We're here now and we're fine," says Altair coolly. "As you can see."

"Yes, of course, I…Malik? Brother, are you sure you're ok? You look so pale." He reaches for Malik's wrist, tapping it with two fingers. "There's a pulse. I guess you're alive, anyway." He forces a laugh at the old joke.

Altair bristles with impatience. "Where is the Master?" he demands.

"In his library. Altair, I think you should know that he's…"

"Never mind. Kadar, go find an extra tunic from somewhere, a large one. Steal it from someone if you have to."

"What? Why?" He glances at confusion at Malik's bare shoulders, and takes in the stained cloth tied about his brother's midsection. Fear blossoms in his eyes. "M-Malik? Are you hurt?"

"Kadar, go. Chat with him later, we don't have time for standing around."

"Malik, what's wrong? What's under that bandage? _Talk_ to me already."

"Damn it, will you go!" Altair grabs him by the shoulder and physically turns him around. "And be quick about it," he shouts after Kadar's retreating form.

Malik glares at him. "He's worried," he says. "He has a right to be."

"Worry won't keep your wounds clean."

"You would know. If you don't stop picking at your lip it's going to scar."

Altair shrugs. "I'll wear the marks you give me," he says, and it infuriates Malik that he can't tell how serious the older boy means to be.

They stand there, at the bottom of the village. The crowds give them a wide berth; even their fellow assassins watch with awe and from a distance. Malik can hear the muttering and wonders just how many people know they've been gone.

"Where is he?" growls Altair. "How can even a novice assassin be so slow?"

"It's fine. I don't need the tunic."

"You're leaving a trail as we walk. What you've got on now is soaked through."

"Oh."

"_Oh_? Did you really not notice?"

"I thought maybe the bleeding had stopped. I told you before, it doesn't hurt so badly now."

Altair shakes his head. "Sons of bitches," he snarls, and Malik decides not to ask whether he's included in the curse.

Kadar comes scurrying back, clutching an assassin's white tunic in his hands. "Sorry," he pants, "I had to steal it off someone's washing line."

Altair says, "You ran all the way to the fortress? Were none of the village women hanging laundry today?"

Kadar looks close to tears. "I didn't want to get caught stealing from them. It might've caused a crowd and then it'd take me all day to get back."

"You're an assassin! If you take from them they won't stop you. Besides, if you take from them they shouldn't _see_ you—"

"Altair," says Malik, "shut up. Kadar," and he smiles with real warmth, "it's fine. Really. I'm a little battered, that's all. Sorry to have worried you, but I'm glad you still waited."

"Oh, I did, just like I said I would. I even snuck out past the gates at night, it wasn't so hard except I barely slept at all. I was afraid I'd miss you if I went to bed."

"You know I would have gone to find you first thing."

"Still, I wanted to wait. I promised you guys I would."

"We're grateful," says Malik. "Aren't we?" Altair takes one look at him and manages a nod.

"I'm just glad you're ok. Both of you. Hey, did you get that list? Did you see any Templars?"

"I'll tell you later—"

"Of course we got the list," Altair brags. "What sort of assassins would we be if we failed?"

"But wasn't it guarded well? There must have been a ton of Templars!"

"Two less now," says Altair, and Kadar's eyes go so huge with admiration Malik is a bit worried they might get stuck.

"You mean it? You really killed Templars?"

"It wasn't hard."

"_Who-o-a_! I bet it would have been hard for anyone else."

"Probably. That's why we went and not _anyone__ else_."

Malik snaps, "Will you stop? We killed one Templar. One. The other man was just a common soldier. And even he…"

The soldier's face looms suddenly before Malik's eyes…his face, the whip, that vile-smelling room. He shudders. Altair's eyes darken with fresh anger.

"Guys?" Kadar glances uncertainly from one to the other. "What is it?"

"Nothing," says Malik, before Altair can open his mouth. He tugs the tunic over his head and thrusts his arms through the sleeves. "It's nothing. I'm tired. Altair, we'd better go talk to Al Mualim."

So they start up the winding path to the fortress, through hurriedly parting crowds. Older assassins stare at them, younger ones scurry off. Altair tries to offer a steadying arm again but this time Malik shrugs it off.

"You guys," says Kadar, "I told Al Mualim where you went. I had to! You were supposed to be back _days_ ago, and when he realized you were missing he was gonna mark you off as traitors. He punished me for not telling him right away, you know. I hadda scrub the floors of his library, and, I mean, no one ever wipes their boots off before they go in there. And I gotta clean dishes after dinner for like a gazillion hours." He peers nervously at Altair and adds, "_And_ I don't get any throwing knives for a whole month after everyone else gets them. But I woulda waited even longer if he wasn't gonna send assassins after you."

"He wouldn't have," says Altair, but he doesn't sound so sure.

"You'd better show him the list right away," says Kadar. "He's really mad—"

"Hey, they're back! Abbas, over here." Suddenly Rauf is before them, beaming. Behind him Abbas is standing with arms folded, face a perfect blank. The little group is blocking the narrow path that winds along the cliff-face, looking down at Masyaf's first level, but no one tries to make them move.

"We were wondering where you two had gone," Rauf cries. "I almost couldn't believe it when Kadar told me."

"What were you thinking?" Abbas wants to know. "You can't just send yourselves on missions."

Malik stares at them: one cheerful, one dour, both dressed in clean uniforms and perfectly healthy. Neither one of them spent three days being beaten senseless.

"You two should really be more careful." Abbas shakes his head. "And dragging Kadar into it. What lesson is that for the novices?"

Rauf grins. "Oh, lighten up. I think it's great that they went! A little action at last. How'd it go?"

"They killed Templars! Altair already told me that. They made their first kills!"

"Did you really?"

"The Master didn't tell you to go," Abbas insists. "Who cares what you did? This is what happens when you think you're greater than Allah. And I bet Al Mualim will still grovel at your feet."

Malik says, "It isn't as though Altair went alone."

"But I'm sure it was his idea. Wasn't it? He talked you into it so you could take the fall for him when something went wrong."

"No," says Kadar, "That isn't it. Malik went 'cause he had to help his friend. Right?"

Abbas sneers. "His _friend_. He has poor choice in friends."

"Shut your mouth," Altair threatens, "before I shut it for you."

"Why so angry, hero? You sent yourself on a mission and now you're back to reap the reward. You do everything wrong but Allah keeps showering you with good fortune anyway. It makes no sense."

"Makes sense to me. Even your god thinks I'm more important than you."

"Take that back, heretic!"

"Al Mualim and Allah both favor me. That's why I had the courage to make my first kill for the Brotherhood while you play-fight against novices. Yes, maybe Malik and I went on a mission unannounced. But with your skills you'll never get to go on a mission at all. You'll be too busy being the cook."

"Guys, come on." Rauf tries to step between the two. "We're Brothers, we're not supposed to fight."

"Altair isn't my Brother. I pity anyone who counts him as a loyal assassin." And Abbas sends a look Malik's way that's half pity, half disgust. "They're blind if they think they can trust the likes of him." When no one answers (and when Malik catches himself rolling his eyes) Abbas goes bright red in the face. "But I know you won't listen to the lowly likes of me," he says, and spits at Malik's feet.

"Hey," Kadar protests. "You can't talk to them like that. They already made their first kills."

Abbas ignores him. "You're smart," he says to Malik, "or at least I thought you were. That's why I don't understand it. You have all the Brotherhood to ally with and yet you choose this arrogant creature. You must really enjoy sucking his cock—"

Altair leaps at Abbas, nearly knocking over Kadar in the process, and with a little snarl of rage punches him right in the eye. Abbas staggers back; his attacker follows. It looks as though Altair is going to punch him right off the side of the mountain, but at the last second Rauf grabs Abbas and hauls him out of range. Kadar attempts to pull Altair back, and though the older boy easily shakes him off, he does lower his fists. Rauf keeps between them, just in case.

"Enough already," he says. "The guards are staring. It's three lashes for any journeymen caught fighting, you know that. You two battle for the same cause. Can't you pretend to get along?"

Abbas scowls and doesn't answer. His eye is already starting to swell. Altair scoffs and pushes past them, bumping into Kadar with his shoulder for good measure.

"Let's go, Malik," he barks. Malik opens his mouth to answer but Rauf's warning is still beating in his ears—_it__'__s__ three__ lashes,__ you __know __that._ The threat's always been over his head, and he's always ignored it, and now he can't imagine three lashes being a deterrent. Three? Only three? Why, the Templars had him strung up for hours, they took _turns_. Only three lashes? That wouldn't be near enough to show bone-…

"Malik? Malik! Altair, what's wrong with him?"

The elder A-Sayf blinks to hear Kadar's voice sound just shy of utter terror. He blinks again and realizes he's sitting, right there in the middle of the path, staring into space. Kadar is crouched at his side, trying to get his attention by shaking his shoulder. Abbas and Rauf are both staring.

"Sorry," he manages. "Been a long week…"

Then Kadar shrieks, "My hand! There's blood all over me." He gasps. "Malik, your back is…you're bleeding through the shirt."

"I know. It isn't so bad."

"Not so bad?" Rauf looks unnaturally grim as he, too, takes a look. "You need to get to the healer. Kadar, go get one of the guards."

"No. Don't. Altair and I need to see Al Mualim first. He'll be even angrier than he already is if he has to come find us."

"But you need the healer. I don't know how you're even standing."

"What _happened_?" wails Kadar. "You said you got the list and killed the Templars."

"Well, we did. Just…after the fact. Really, it's fine."

"But what happened?" asks Rauf. "I agree with Kadar, you don't look like a man who's won!"

"Nothing happened. There was this group of soldiers who caught up with us."

Kadar says, "But Altair looks fine."

"They got me. They didn't get him."

"How'd they get you?"

In one abrupt motion he knows he'll suffer for later, Malik pushes himself to his feet. "They just did," he says, and his voice dares them to ask any other questions. Dares Altair to answer what's already been asked. He says again, "They just did," and knows he'll go to his grave before Kadar ever finds out the truth. This burden is not meant for them both to share.

But Altair doesn't seem inclined to argue, which is a surprise. Instead he goes to Malik and helps steady him once again. "Come, Brother," he says, sounding unusually formal. "We're not far from the fortress now."

Rauf still looks uncertain. "I'll tell the healers to make a bed ready for you," he says. "Abbas, let's go."

"I told you," Abbas hisses, squinting through his black eye. "I told you years ago that you'd be the one to pay for his mistakes."

He stalks off before anyone can answer him. Rauf shoots them an embarrassed glance before hurrying to catch up.

Silence lingers. Kadar bites his lip and looks at the two older assassins, worried. Altair has withdrawn to the comforts of his cowl. "I did not mean…" he begins, but Malik cuts him off.

"Don't," he says. "Don't apologize. And don't do that again."

"Do what?"

"Fight my battles. Why did you punch Abbas? I can protect my own dignity, thank you." He turns before Altair can answer, forcing his legs up the path's gradual incline. But though the Son of None falls back a step, trailing after Malik with his expression buried beneath the cowl, Kadar runs to catch up. Malik stops to let him and when he does Kadar leans in, rests his head against his brother's shoulder. It's something he hasn't done since he was a little boy, seeking refuge from nighttime dangers. Now he has to bend his knees somewhat to manage. Malik smiles.

"You're sure you're alright?" Kadar asks.

"Of course. I wouldn't lie to you." And he wouldn't. Hiding the truth is not the same as changing it. And who does it hurt if Kadar's inadvertent role in all this is quietly put away…?

_-i-_

It's a relief to reach the main hall, and the bustle of the courtyard out front. Journeymen are moving in all directions, civilians are gathered in clusters by the gates, and no one bothers to notice three assassins in particular out of all the throng. But when they start to enter the hall, one of the guards holds out a hand.

"Master Al Mualim will see you," he says to the older boys. "Only you. The novice must wait outside."

"But…but why can't I come in? I won't say anything, I swear."

"Master's orders," says the guard, and falls silent, as if he's used up his weekly quota of words. It does worry Malik that he's too tired to argue.

"Just wait in the healer's room," he tells Kadar. "I'll go over there when I'm done here."

"Um. Alright." Kadar looks uncertain. "Good luck," he says.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," says Altair. "We've accomplished our mission. Al Mualim will have to give us praise."

"He doesn't have to do anything." Malik shakes his head. "Come, Brother. Let's get this over with."

Somehow Altair still thinks to swagger past the guards as they enter. It fits him, even now.

Al Mualim has his back to them when they approach his desk. The day outside is overcast, and the hazy light spills through the wide window over his tall, commanding form. Altair steps forward to talk now, and Malik lets him. This is Altair's territory…this is his father figure, standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back.

Altair says, "Master, we've returned. The mission ran longer than expected and for that we—"

"Did I give you leave to speak, boy?" Al Mualim does not turn around. Altair has the audacity to look surprised. "If not, then why are you speaking? Hold your tongue until I allow you to use it." Altair flinches back from the angry words as if they were physical blows, but Al Mualim is not finished. He turns now to face them, and Malik's eyes are drawn to the patches of white in his brown beard before the wrath in his good eye. "I am still the master here," he says, "though it seems my two best pupils have chosen to forget that."

The earnest quality to Altair's voice is new, and doesn't match. "We have not forgotten! That's why we went, Master. To make things easier for you."

"To make things easier?" Al Mualim, usually so calm, is an awesome presence when he roars. "And how did you do that? Was it when you disobeyed all order and custom? Was it when you vanished without a word, without thought that I might have better use for you? Did you think you were making things easier by announcing to the entire Order that I cannot control my own novices?"

"We aren't novices. And we have…"

Al Mualim slams his fist upon the desk. A stack of papers tilts and slides off the edge, wafting to the stone floor. Malik realizes he's holding his breath and lets it out. Altair has gone ashen.

"You are lower than novices," their Master bellows. "You are disobedient. You are fools. Do not argue this with me, boy, for if you are not fools then you are traitors. Don't doubt that I can still handle my own Order. I will cut out traitorous elements as a surgeon hacks off limbs.

"Always you hold yourself so highly," he continues, quieter now but no less angry, staring at the Son of None as if there's never been anything between them but poisonous words. "I have been lenient with you because of your talent…too lenient, I see that now. My indulgence has cost you your sense of place. You think to order yourself about! You forget how worthless an assassin is on his own. _Brotherhood_, Altair. Cooperation, obedience, wisdom…without the first two you will never have the last. And there is no place here for an assassin who will not learn."

Altair says, so soft as to be almost inaudible, "Yes, Master." Malik risks a sympathetic glimpse, but it goes unnoticed as the older boy fixes his gaze at the window, just past their Master's left shoulder. A muscle pulses in his jaw.

"And you." Malik starts with surprise: Al Mualim is sending that transcendent, godlike gaze his way now. "I thought that _you_ were wiser than this, Malik. You should temper his stupidity, not encourage it. Until now you've never given me cause to worry, but perhaps you too think yourself above the rules of the Brotherhood."

"No, Master. Neither of us think that."

"Then I have taken a pair of talented assassins and turned them into idiots!" Shouts Al Mualim, "it would be better if you'd never been promoted past novices. I'll take a man blind, deaf and dumb over one who will not listen. And you dragged your brother into this conceit. He lied for you, and he was punished for it. Lied, to his master, for _you_. It wasn't enough that you felt the need to ruin your own future? You must also ruin his?"

Malik reddens. But before he can defend himself, Altair says, "It was my idea to go, and to involve Kadar. The punishment for that should be mine alone."

"That is not your choice to make," says Al Mualim. "Whoever came up with the idea, Malik decided to accept it. Whatever has happened is as much his fault as yours."

Though curses blister in his throat, Malik keeps himself restrained. He does shoot Altair a confused glance when the Master isn't looking. Altair ignores it.

Al Mualim turns back towards the window, frowning deeply. "What can be done with two wayward assassins who will not learn?" he asks the air. "All their lives they have been taught duty and patience. All their lives they have ignored the lessons!

"Because of your disobedience," and he whirls around to glare at them again, "you've made things more difficult for your Brothers. Not only Kadar, but the men who must now retrieve what the _Dai_ of Jerusalem died to protect. Now the Templars will be suspicious and they will keep this thing hidden well. You have made the mission far riskier for those actual assassins to whom the mission rightly belonged. You have broken the Creed with your actions, and then you have the nerve to come here with heads held high, to face me as if you were _heroes_."

"Assassins should never hide from what they've done," Altair says. "Even if they are in the wrong they should own up to their mistakes."

The Master clasps his hands to his chest. "You would lecture me?" he demands. "That is the final blow. This Order has no place for your hubris, Altair, nor your failures—"

"But we did not fail." The Son of None pulls out the little book from its pouch and holds it up before Al Mualim. "We've brought it back for you, so there's no need to risk other men for its sake. _Dai_ Faraj's goal has been achieved."

Al Mualim stares at him for a long time without speaking. Then he reaches out to grab the book, pawing through it in disbelief. For once Altair has the good sense to hold his tongue; Malik, still stinging from the reprimand, looks upon the whole spectacle with weary disgust.

Finally, the Master places the book down upon the table. He strokes his beard for a bit before saying, "What sort of luck is this? You accomplished what a great leader could not? And by yourself? I must think on this a while. Two lucky fools…" He glances at Malik before turning his gaze directly onto Altair. The boy leans forward, probably hoping for praise, for a kind word—a fool of a different kind, but Malik can't help but put the blame for that on their Master's back.

"Go," says the old man, and waves a dismissive hand. Altair's eyes go from bright to blank. For a second there is hurt visible there, before the assassin wrestles it away. "Go and give me an hour safe from your inanity. Keep to your quarters. I will deal with you soon."

Altair says, "But Master," and stops. Clenches his fists. Says, "Yes, Master Al Mualim," in a tone as dead as Malik's ever heard.

"You as well, Malik. Don't think that your reprimand will be any less severe for following along. It is a weak man who…" Al Mualim's eyes give a sudden spark. "How badly are you hurt?" The younger boy is confused until he happens to glance down to see the red-brown puddle at his feet. It isn't large, but all it can mean is that wounds barely closed have opened back up.

The Master is still waiting for an answer, but Malik doesn't know what to say. He shrugs. The pain of that comes with unexpected vehemence and the shrug is followed after by a grimace, a grunt choked down. He hears Al Mualim tell Altair to help him to the healers, and he knows he doesn't want the help, so somehow he moves down the wide stone staircase of his own volition. Somehow he gets across the courtyard, the abuse ringing in his ears, _you__ must __also __ruin __Kadar__'__s __future? _and _you__'__ve __made __things __more __difficult_, Altair following behind with his shoulders still held stiff against harsh words. Such a _fool_ he is, trying to look dignified and unconcerned. Is Malik really the only one who can see his act for what it is?

Then they're in the hall leading towards the healers' rooms, and Malik's legs are trembling. So Altair comes up beside him to keep him steady, in that stubborn way that allows for no argument. Malik scowls even as he leans against the older boy, shallow panting the only insult he can manage.

Altair says, "We've done it. Didn't I tell you? Al Mualim will see he can depend on us to achieve victory."

"Are you insane? He was furious."

"Yes, yes, because he had to be. It would have looked bad if he wasn't. But now he has the book. What other assassin could have managed what we've done? Our punishment will probably be another mission! I'm sure you'll be fine in a day or two…"

"Altair," says Malik, "shut up."

They trudge in silence down the hall.

_-i-_

As it turns out, Malik is not fine in a day or two. Almost the minute he collapses into bed, his lurking headache shows itself for what it truly is: a nasty concussion that drapes the air in blinking lights, and makes every faint sound a shrill one. He tosses and turns for near a week in semi-delirium, sweating through the sheets, struggling to talk or think. His tongue is fat and clumsy, and even his own name is so heavy a word he mangles its reciting.

When at last the worst of the concussion breaks, he leaves that bizarrely twisted world behind only to jump back into his own battered body. The healers tend to his back with reeking ointments and the near-constant reapplication of bandages, but each time someone comes to peel off the old dressing it feels as though they're peeling off what little skin he's got left too. Several times Malik wishes he could sink back into delirium; it didn't hurt so badly then. Several times he almost passes out with the ache of it, clinging to consciousness only by pure willpower and clawed hands. The healers are sympathetic but can do nothing for him: whatever mind-soothing herbs they might usually use for pain control are too dangerous for a person so recently concussed.

Al Mualim sends someone to get the details of the mission. Lying propped up and dull-eyed he tells the man some of the details, but not all. The beatings are self-explanatory and still obvious…the whipping, as well. But he doesn't say that he turned back, or why, only that the Templars caught up to him while Altair slipped away. He doesn't mention the perverted soldier, only the general and the Templars. He tells of his first kill, and Altair's, without mentioning the older boy's retreat behind the bushes.

Then there's nothing to do but stare out the small window just beside his bed. From there he has a view of the main courtyard, and the training ring. And Altair serving out his sentence.

For Al Mualim has informed the Son of None that if he feels he is a Master Assassin, able to make decisions as one and accomplish the duties of one, he should therefore undergo a Master Assassin's training. Each day guards rouse him before dawn to throw him into laps about the courtyard, free-running drills across the village rooftops, pushups for an hour at a time, hard climbs up the side of the fortress until his fingers can't hold his weight and he falls. Instructors who before lauded his skills now stand at the bottom of the watchtower and critique every tiny detail of every leap of faith he's ordered to make. They give him a wooden sword and throw him into sparring sessions with men twice his age and weight, and who wield metal blades. Long after the sun has set, when even the highly ranked assassins are asleep, Altair is kept climbing and running, berated for every gasp of breath.

Only when the boy, to whom appearance is so important, sits crouched and dry-heaving into the dust, do they give him dinner and let him collapse onto his mat for a few hours of heavy sleep. Then they come again, before dawn, and it starts all over again.

Malik watches him wobble about the courtyard, exhausted, covered in mud, head lowered against the many jeers sent his way from other assassins. He sees all this and yet can't bring himself to feel much sympathy. Because Malik A-Sayf has been given his sentence, too.

For as long as it takes him to recuperate, a long and agonizing process that stretches past a solid month, he is forbidden from seeking his brother. The guards at the entrance to the healers' wing of the fortress are given stern orders to keep Kadar away. He isn't even allowed to peer through the window. It isn't as though Kadar doesn't try: he uses every trick he's been taught to sneak past the guards, even scaling the walls and attempting to crawl like a cat across the low-slung beams that hold up the ceiling. But the tricks he knows are just as familiar to the guards, and they've been doing their job a lot longer. No sooner has Kadar pushed open the door to Malik's room then a stern-faced assassin is there to haul him away.

Malik watches Altair being worked to the brink of all endurance and isn't much aggrieved. For, of the two punishments, Malik knows that his own is surely the worst.

_[End of Part One]_

_-i-i-i-i-_

* * *

AN: Altair is the best ever at flirting. Never mind that Malik is injured and traumatized, Altair is sort of digging the jail cell scenario so to him this seems like a great time to bat eyelashes. I don't know how canon it is for him to actually get screaming-angry over something, in the game he's either Too Cool For This Shit or defensive. But what the hell, he's still young here.

There will be a pause while I turn my attention to another work-in-progress and also get my notes in order for the next part of this story. This chapter should be long enough to tide you over!


	16. Inter

AN: The brothers finally reach Damascus, and something precious is finally lost. No Altair in this chapter...he'll be back soon.

Trying desperately to find some happy medium between Fandom Kadar and Actual Kadar. This is meant to be an interim chapter more than anything, so it's shorter. More of an aside. I'm gonna take another few-weeks-long-break and then I should be ready to launch back into part two.

**Fair warning: next chapter will likely contain explicit content and the rating will be changing accordingly. **And no, it's not Malik going back to the brothel.

* * *

_Inter: _

_**Ghosts**_

What he knows of Damascus is that it's ever-growing.

Malik has visited the city several times in his life. Every trip starts out the same way, with a visit to the Damascus _Rafik_ for mission details and supplies, but after that there's no knowing where his assignment might lead him. He's been to the rich districts, where the walled courtyards burst with fresh flowers and the river curls clean and calm along wide avenues. In those districts women wear colorful veils that show off kohl-rimmed eyes, or else sit on balconies, behind latticed screens. When the traveling merchants come by, the women extend smooth, bejeweled hands through cracks in the screen to signal their intent to purchase. It isn't uncommon for an illicit romance to spring out of this small contact; because Malik has been trained to notice secrets he's seen his fair share of lovers being beckoned in upon the exit of the man of the house.

He smiles when he sees that. The women keeping _purdah_ in Damascus are shut away from all the hustle of the sprawling city. Who can blame them for being bored?

Malik has also been to the poor districts, where everything seems colored shades of brown, where children with old faces beg in the shadows of the mosques and often the wells run dry. The river here is fast-paced and equally brown. The viciousness of the guards is matched only by the viciousness of the haggling: each merchant stands by his rickety stall and swears upon Allah and His Prophet that the produce is fresh, the fish unspoiled, the meat killed just recently and assuredly _halal_. They are cursed and disparaged by their customers, women as well as men for no one in the poor districts can afford a sheltered, idle life. The women might hide themselves behind layers of stained robes and _hijabs_, but woe to any merchant who tries to take advantage of feminine weakness. They guard their coins with bitter satisfaction here.

Malik knows all the city equally well…knows where the town criers stand, and where the city walls are easily scaled, and where the guards don't often go. He knows every hay cart and every bench, knows which streets are always crowded (good for losing pursuers or tracking targets) and which narrow and ignored (good for hiding what must stay hidden, good for meeting those who must not be found).

Damascus is ever-growing, but Malik A-Sayf has a mapmaker's mind. He never loses his way.

Today he stands before a shop near the city walls. The little window beside the door is crammed full of miscellany, all sorts of things jumbled together. Though Malik's orders require him to go outside, he doesn't enter right away. First he eyes the road the store sits on, noting where the path forks and where the stairs might impede any sudden flight. He also notes that there are many soldiers and few vigilantes; the _Rafik_ has chosen this shop partially to begin making inroads into a thus-far neglected district. An assassin, someone else if not Malik, will soon be tasked with recruiting civilians to the cause, men who will offer blind eyes to Order business and who will risk distracting suspicious guards.

Such vigilantes are paid well for their efforts, of course, but Malik has never liked dragging civilians into his own fights. Not all the passerby are armed, and few are well-trained. Better to clamber over a merchant's stall, letting it collapse and causing some momentary chaos that way, then to involve outsiders. Nevertheless, growing districts mean the Brotherhood must grow as well. Only when Malik is sure that there is nothing suspicious outside the shop does he turn to duck inside.

It's dark inside, dark and musty, with stock heaped upon splintered tables and stacked in corners. There's no apparent organization: reams of cloth crumpled under stoneware, wicker baskets filled to the brim with bangles and bells, the sort of tasteless jewelry not often seen outside a whorehouse. At the back of the shop is a low counter, cluttered as the rest of the place, little glass vials filled with amber liquid fighting for space alongside some unraveled scrolls and a fraying quill.

Malik isn't fazed. He's here for supplies, has a long list from the _Rafik_, and much of what's on that list isn't necessarily legal. The hardest part of his mission is already completed: he's already prowled after some suspected Templars, made a mental map of their hideout, left a guard who caught him spying slumped on a low rooftop with a dagger in his ear. All he has left is to pick up the _Rafik's_ supplies, in the process judging the usefulness of this new store and the condition of the surrounding area. He will hand off both items and information to the bureau leader, and then he will ride for home.

"Yes? Hello, you wanted something?" The merchant is sitting behind the counter, and rises to his feet only grudgingly. "_Salaam,_ friend," he says as though he was reading off a scroll. "_Ahlan wa sahlan_. Welcome here, God's blessings upon you. Come, sit, tell me what you need."

Malik narrows his eyes, first against the gloom and then even further, until he can make out a sudden spark of color in the far corner of the room. His eagle's vision has never been as strong as it is in other men, but still it serves him well; the lingering blue glow assures him that it's safe to take his hand off the hilt of his sword.

"I've everything you could want. Lots of things. Too many things. Tell me what you need and I'll find it right away." The seller's words clash with the dull disinterest in his voice. He stands in the corner, eyeing the white-robed man—eyeing especially the white-robed man's sword—as though the last thing he wants right now is to haggle over sales. "Whatever you're looking for, you've come to the right place."

Malik murmurs, "I'm sure." The merchant falls silent. The ink stains on his fingertips suggest he'd been tending to the books…an odd thing to do at midday, unless the hope of customers was that weak. This doesn't look like a store that does brisk business.

"You look around if you want," says the man after a moment, with a vague wave of his hand. "I've got perfumes from the infidel courts and spices from India and…"

"I've a list of what I need," says Malik, and hands it over. He watches carefully as the merchant glances down the little scrap of parchment, noting how the man stiffens as he realizes.

"Much of this is…hard to get," he mutters without looking up. Malik smiles.

"Illegal, you mean. If you're worried about the guards finding out, don't be. We can protect you from them."

"So you _are_ one of those assassins," the merchant says, tonelessly. "Thought you might've been from that symbol on your belt. Give you a good price for it," he adds in a sudden spurt of interest, the first he's shown yet. Maybe he does know what he's doing.

Malik says, "I know one of my Brothers has been here to speak with you already. My intent isn't to pressure you further. We can offer protection and gold, but if you would rather not take the risk…"

But the merchant cuts him off. "The last assassin I spoke with said you fought Templars. Corruption and marauders when you have to, yes, but Templars more than anyone else."

Malik waits.

"I'd help you for free," the man grunts. "Low-crawling snakes. Allah curse them!" and he spits. "They destroyed my home, you know. Years ago. The whole damn village gone. I don't know much from armies and crusades but if you're telling me you assassins go after the devils who left me stuck in this shithole city, I'll do whatever you want."

"It could be dangerous. Damascus might be a Muslim city but they still have a strong presence here. The sort of invasion the Templars promise isn't separated by border or creed." It always takes Malik a moment to remember that—to remember how insidious the Templars are, how easily they creep into any crevice left unguarded. They can take any cause and twist it, until people end up supporting them without knowing why. As a child he thought Damascus would be a citadel of the Faithful and thus a place of safety. As an adult he knows it's a blessing he and his brother never made it this far.

"Feh." The merchant shrugs. "What'd I lose if they did kill me? This dump? I could sell everything in here and not make enough to pay all the taxes they throw on you. It was easier to sell in the village…it was always the travel that made it worthwhile. The adventure of it, knowing people were waiting for you back home. But to be stuck here..." He gestures at the mess again, more lively now. "I've got some of the stuff you need lying around. You'll have to come back for the rest."

Malik nods, expresses thanks on behalf of the Brotherhood, watches the merchant as he begins bustling about, pulling random items from underneath piles of other things. There's always uncertainty involved in finding new shops to work with: crucial work, for nothing could be done without blacksmiths and tailors, but dangerous work even so. It isn't all that rare for a tailor or doctor to swear loyalty to the Brotherhood only to go running for the city guard out of mismatched patriotism or love of coin. Sometimes they even go running to the Templars.

So this latest man will be watched very carefully, no matter how helpful he proves himself now. For all that Malik strides about the city in his assassins' garb, for all that he knows how to part a crowd, how to stand atop a building and smile down at the horrified soldiers below—for all that, he knows how important it is for some secrets to be kept.

"Some strange stuff on this list, some rare stuff…" The merchant rambles on as he digs about. "I'm not much for rare items. Too much work and the guard's always barging in to confiscate whatever looks good. I used to just come for the basic stuff and bring it back home, made a nice living that way, was even thinking of sending my sons to board at a _madrassah_ here in the city."

"Mm," says Malik.

"It's harder now. Being stuck here, too much competition, no one worth trusting. No offense but even you assassins just make more chaos. It's the city—all these high walls make people trapped and stupid. I hired some street kid to carry some vases for a customer and he drops 'em! Lost a good sale for that."

"Mm."

"Always people screaming and fighting and trying to steal, banging into me in the street, going to the bathroom right there in the open for me to walk in. They come in here and leave with half my stock in their pockets. The other merchants put them to it! No such thing as fair competition in Damascus. And so crowded. Every time the Templars ransack a village all the survivors cram in here. Why d'you think the poor districts are growing so fast? You think the rich would share their space?"

"Mm hm."

"I don't mean to insult you but the Crusaders aren't planning to leave. What are your people doing? Meanwhile Acre's a ruin so there's nothing good getting through the port. I gotta raise my prices 'cause you take your life in your hands leaving the city to buy anything and then everyone in this pile of shit and mud complains."

"It's a harsh world," says Malik. With his mind elsewhere he bends down to pick up a serving tray, its silver surface tarnished and marred by dents. "We can only do so much at a time. Slow progress is better than rash aggression."

"Pretty words," grunts the man. "Pretty words from a fortunate tongue. You'd be saying something else if the Templars burned _your_ village down."

Malik puts down the tray, very carefully, and says, "They came when I was ten."

The merchant has the good grace to look away.

The assassin takes the chance to study him further in the awkward pause. He's not a tall man, not very imposing, but his figure doesn't match the deep cadence of his voice. He wears his thinness as though in stiff disguise, as though he once bore solid arms and a round belly. Now he has all the marks of a failing hawker: his robes are sweeping but faded, the green-and-gold fabric stained and the cuffs fraying. He's lacking the boisterous laugh and gaudy jewels of a rich city salesman. Lacking the subtle air of thievery, as well.

"I'll help you," he says again, louder this time. "Let me see what I can find before you go." Malik nods, his eagle's vision flashing a quick second before settling down, leaving him once again bathed for some seconds in faint blue. It isn't a promise—men are fickle and too easily changed, an enemy cursed in scarlet might yet be seen later in neutral grey—but it's a good sign. This merchant in his dusty shop, wearing his poverty as a cloak that doesn't fit, is likely not a threat. Deep in thought the man draws a hand over his bare chin, where a ten-year-old part of Malik's mind keeps wanting to put a proper beard; with the lower half of his face covered, he almost looks familiar.

"A strange list, a strange list...who did you say wants all this stuff?"

"The Order will be indebted to you if you can find what we need," says Malik, neatly sideswiping the question. In speaking of the Order he is reminded: "One of my Brothers is supposed to meet me here...we'll both be off when he arrives."

"Do you want me to run a store or a coffee shop?" the merchant grumbles. "Should I bring out the _hookah _pipe? If this were my village, fine, but there's no such thing as politeness in Damascus. It only gets you robbed."

Malik promises, "We'll be out of your way quickly, Uncle. My companion should have been here already, actually, but he tends to forget himself and always ends up late." He frowns. "Much as I've warned him _not_ to be..."

"So leave without him. If he ever bothers to arrive I'll send him on his way."

"It's my duty to wait."

"Because you're both assassins?"

"Assassins won't always wait. But we share more than title—"

The shop's door bangs open then, and the man who tramps inside is brawny, almost clumsy with his size, his grey cowl flapping at his shoulders despite all mission protocol. His eyes are what give his age away: they're the eyes of a teenager, not a full-grown man, for all that his broad shoulders make him look as though he's older. The nervous giggle he offers to a still-frowning Malik adds to that sense of youth.

"Sorry, Mal-I-mean-Brother, I'm late, sorry," Kadar gasps out, all in a rush as ever. "I was almost here, I swear, but then this guard saw me so I hadda run for it, lost him in a crowd 'cause I sat on this bench and he went right past me. And the lady sitting next to me was _very_ pretty. So I got distracted and then when she left I took a wrong turn 'cause you've always been better at directions than me..."

"Brother," says Malik, folding his arms against his chest, "what have I told you about being needlessly late on missions?"

"Uhh. Not to do it?"

"Because?"

"Because if it's a real dangerous one my Brothers won't wait for me, or if they do it'll be putting them at avoidable risk which is against the Creed?" Kadar tries a hopeful smile. "It's a good thing I've only just been made a journeyman. Be a while before Al Mualim sends me on anything dangerous."

"Don't be dumb," snaps Malik. "The graveyards are filled with assassins your age or younger. They expect journeymen to help train the novices but you're still acting like a novice yourself."

"I know."

"Look at your cowl."

"What? Oh, it's..." Kadar reaches around his back for it, grabbing haplessly at nothing. "Musta...where is it? Musta fallen off while I was running. _Nrgh_...ah, Mal-I-mean-Brother, could you...?"

Malik huffs and steps behind his brother to lift the cowl. For good measure he yanks it low over Kadar's eyes.

"Hey! Alright, alright, stoppit." Kadar scrambles to readjust himself, trying to tug free from the older man's grasp. "I can't _see_, Malik-...I mean. Uh. Oh."

Malik twitches.

Kadar giggles again and takes a step back towards the door. "Sorry," he says. "I, uh, it slipped out. You're never supposed to use your name or show your face on missions, yup, I know, but. Um."

It is with a deep breath, and patience born out of many similar disputes, that Malik swallows his anger. Foolish little brother! One day his mistakes will get him killed! Meanwhile the merchant laughs to himself from the back of the store.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," he tells Malik. "Just a little kid. But he had this younger brother he used to try to herd around like a sheep. Actually," and his voice grows more thoughtful, "his name was also..."

"Common name," says Malik, still frowning in Kadar's direction.

"_Na'am_." The merchant sighs. "Anyway they're both dead. Trapped in the village when the Templars came, and those bastards didn't let anyone survive. Such a slaughter, but _Allah alim,"_ he mumbles. "Allah knows best."

"So they say." Malik turns his back on the man, focusing on his brother. "Listen," he says, "this shop will work. But the road outside is busy. If the _Rafik_ ever sends you here, you have to make sure that you're not being followed."

"Yup."

"And keep your cowl on! It's only by luck that your first mission was with me at your side. What if next time they send you alone? It's a two month trip from here to there, and I'm no _djinni_. I can't magically appear to remind you not to give your own identity away. What if they send you all the way to Jerusalem next?"

"I know, I know. Don't worry so much."

"You make it very hard not to worry."

"Just a few small mistakes!"

"The first thing you did when we got here was get lost. It took me an hour to find you, somehow you ended up in a mosque of all things—"

"I was having a good discussion with the people out front when you arrived. You should have stuck around to listen. Did you know that there's this new theory on, uh, well, something scientific, that they came up with in Baghdad? There are a lot of numbers involved."

"You know how the Order feels about strolling into houses of worship."

"I was making friends. Allies, even."

"Yes, and if those friendly people out front learned you think the Quran is just a very old book, you'd have some very angry allies! Don't you remember what happened to Nasr the last time he went to Jerusalem? Said the wrong thing to the wrong person and suddenly he had half the Church chasing him out of the city."

"That's how he puts it, anyway. I still think they chased him out 'cause he got caught sleeping with some priest's mistress or something."

("But it's not such a common name," mumbles the merchant to himself.)

Malik grinds his teeth. "You're missing the point. I told you a dozen times that the first thing to do upon arriving in any city is to meet with the local _Rafik_. You're not supposed to wander aimlessly. Or make new friends!"

"Well, maybe if _somebody_ would tell me how to _find_ the Damascus bureau, I wouldn't have gotten lost."

"You should have stayed by my side. I knew where I was going."

"Of course," says Kadar with a roll of his eyes, "you've been here before. Besides, you've memorized every map of every city, ever. The only thing _I_ know about Damascus is that guards don't like it when you push them in the river."

"When did you—_look_." Malik tries to stay stern. "You'll learn your way around soon enough. But we were sent on this mission together and I didn't want to make it more dangerous for you than it had to be. If guards spotted us before we found the bureau, they'd be more interested in me then in some kid who doesn't know where he's going. It was safer that way."

"Safer for who?" Kadar asks. "Have you forgotten we're both assassins or do you just like hogging all the danger for yourself?"

Up to this point Malik has been the only one exasperated by the argument, which is typical. But now Kadar's grin falters and fades; he folds his arms, the only sign he ever gives when he's in a rare bad mood.

"I'm not six, you know," he says. "I've been given the same training as you. Just because your uniform has more white to it and you have a couple more daggers on your belt..."

"I know. That's not what I meant."

"It's never what you meant. I have no idea what you meant! Except that you think you're the only assassin who deserves to take risks." Kadar looks unsettled when he asks, "Is that what happened on that first mission you went on? When somehow the Templars got you and not Altair?"

"Of course not. Don't be stupid."

"You were trying to be the hero, weren't you? Trying to protect everyone? Why would you bother when the other assassin was Altair? I don't understand why neither one of you will ever even _talk_ about it-..."

Malik snaps, "Because there's nothing to talk about. It was years ago. I've told you a hundred times to forget it. There's nothing to talk about so leave it alone!"

(The wounds on his back ache, though they've long been healed. There's nothing left of them but scars, but those scars hold their own phantom pains. And there are so many...)

Kadar, perhaps seeing he's gone too far, says softly, "I'll be careful, Malik. Promise."

And in the face of his brother's earnestness, Malik has no choice but to relent.

Remembering himself he looks back at the merchant, who hasn't moved, hasn't gathered any of the items on Malik's list. There is the strangest look on his face, far away as if his being here is only an illusion. Unconsciously he strokes his chin, fiddling with the beard he must once have had.

"The Assassin Brotherhood thanks you for your assistance," says Malik, who doesn't want to linger much longer. There have been enough secrets spilled in the presence of strangers. "Someone will be here in a few days to pick up the supplies, and go into further detail about what you can..."

"Malik," says the merchant, and runs a hand over his face. "The shepherd boy. I knew his father well."

Suddenly Malik is very uncomfortable. Suddenly he doesn't want to be here at all.

The merchant says, lost in thought, "What was the little one's name? Khalil? Kamal? _Kadar._"

"Yup," says Kadar, out of habit. Then he freezes, blinks, shoots his brother a bewildered glance. Malik clamps a hand to the hilt of his sword and nudges in front of Kadar, just so.

"You know us, _Sayyid_?" he growls, thinking, _A spy? Could the eagle's vision have been so wrong? But why would a Templar spy—_

"God Almighty," the merchant croaks. "Impossible! They've been dead for ten years. All of the village gone. Their parents, Baqir...no, it's impossible that you could be...!"

Kadar whispers, "Malik, what's going on?" He pulls at his sleeve, and Malik remembers eight-year-old Kadar clinging to his side, weeping in terror as their village burned before them, demanding answers no one had. "I don't understand. Who is this?"

And Malik is about to damn the man as a spy when the merchant cries, "Malik and Kadar A-Sayf! Those were their names. When I'd come back from traveling the older one was always asking me questions about what I'd seen. About..."

"About the mosques in Damascus," says Malik, very faint. "About all the towers."

"Impossible." The man's voice is clogged and choking now. "The whole village was rubble when I returned. I know, I saw the bodies. I found my children, my neighbors. Even that crazy old beggar who used to sit by the mosque. I found everyone."

"But you didn't find us," says Malik, still faint. "_Sayyid_ Hamid? I thought you were dead."

"No," says this ghost, this dream, this remnant of a murdered life. "Not dead. I was away when it happened, I—that last dinner with your father, do you remember? The next morning I left for Damascus, to stock up on goods. By the time I returned more than two months had gone by and I...it was hard to recognize the bodies, they'd been in the sun for so long. I didn't even think to look for survivors. I wandered around like a madman, I thought I'd die with grief. But I swear I—if I'd _known_, if I'd seen you...how could mere children survive on their own for so long?"

Kadar says, sounding almost shy, "We weren't children. At least, Malik wasn't a child."

"But in that place! Your parents, they didn't...did they? Were you really alone?"

"We were trying to get to Damascus," Malik whispers. "I remember that dinner now. I remember you left. But back then I—"

_a mistake a mistake they should have waited he should have known all the desert's suffering Malik brought it on his brother's head_

"Back then," he says, "I forgot."

"Malik and Kadar A-Sayf," says _Sayyid_ Hamid again, his eyes shining with unspent tears.

_-i-_

So excited is Hamid that he wants them to stay for dinner, to stay for as long as they can, to go with him to the nearest mosque for breathless, grateful prayer. A miracle! An impossible thing, made true by Allah's pleasure and mercy and grace. He closes his shop without a moment's hesitation, drags out some cushions and an old _hookah_ pipe and insists the brothers linger. He is so happy. So overwhelmed.

"I thought they killed everyone," he keeps saying. "Everyone I knew. I came here because...because where else would I...?" He swallows, hard. "My children were gone. My wife. My neighbors. So I came here and...muddled along. Just muddled along waiting for Allah to have mercy. Nothing to look forward to but Paradise now."

Malik stays quiet, taking a slow pull from the _hookah_ to keep his mouth busy. He usually enjoys the sensation, the flavor, but today the smoke winds its way up inside him until his head is caught in a haze.

"All this time, there were survivors." Hamid says with some resignation, "It's true our Lord loved your father most of all. He saved his children alone from certain death."

"If Allah loved my father, he wouldn't have let him die as he did," says Malik. Then he winces on his own behalf, catching Hamid's shock and Kadar's cast-down eyes. "I'm sorry," he says, for the blasphemy if not the sentiment. "It's the smoke. I haven't done this in a while." In the background Kadar coughs, as if proving the point.

Anyway, Hamid is eager to wave away any discomfort today. "Let all the old hurts be forgotten," he says. "None of them matter now."

None of them matter? Malik looks at the merchant and remembers, across the gap of many years and many fresher faces, _Sayyid_ Hamid as he was at that last dinner. Remembers his complaints, frequent as they were, but born out of contentment. Hamid was someone who enjoyed a good joke, a good story. He loved to describe his travels: loved Damascus for what it offered. And Malik had loved the exciting adult life Hamid was so quick to extol.

Now?

Malik looks at the thin, grizzled man in frayed robes, fiddling with a broken _hookah_, trying to remember how one entertains honored guests. Where is _Sayyid_ Hamid in this? Where is the long-lost village? And where is the shepherd boy, Malik A-Sayf?

"So you two are both assassins now? Amazing. How could I ever imagine? Allah bless your every thought! If I'd been younger when it happened I might've done the same thing. Those Templar bastards. If I'd been there..."

"It's better that you weren't," Malik says. Hamid snorts.

"Because I would've died, you mean. Probably. And yet you two escaped? You'll have to explain that to me! Oh, what a strange world," he cries, "where the home you had can vanish and the dead come back to life."

He adds, "I don't understand exactly what it is you assassins do, but I'll help your cause however I can. For your father's sake. Are you often in Damascus?"

"No," says Malik. "Only for short periods of time. We live in a village some few weeks away." With a brief smile: "We travel as you did. Though there's no eager crowds awaiting our return."

"Heh. So, you remember that?"

"You were the most popular man in all the village."

"On market days, anyway. But I think you're forgetting how it really was. No one likes a merchant unless he's giving his goods away for free."

"_Sayyid _Murtada used to buy from you. Father once said that was an honor."

"Murtada. There's a name I haven't heard in a while." Hamid stares off into the distance. "He didn't make it either? With all his money and power?"

"They burned his house down. Looking back, I think they burned him along with it."

Hamid grimaces. "Demons. But it's bad luck to talk about horrors on such an auspicious day. Come! Stay for supper. This time I'll be the one to host it. Let Allah judge the murderers, we won't spare them another thought." His laugh is as much a shadow of its former self as is the rest of him. Still he turns to Kadar with what is clearly forced joviality. "You've been quiet," he says. "And you've grown. Last I saw you, you were…but now look at you. Look at that sword you're wearing. How old are you now, nineteen? Twenty?"

"Sixteen," says Kadar. "Malik's twenty."

"Sixteen...it's been so long already. My kids would be fathers themselves if they'd lived. And the two of you? Any children yet?"

Malik gives a grim little smile. "We're assassins," he says. "Those don't tend to marry young."

"Well, some do." Kadar, at sixteen, has become entirely too familiar with the brothel in the hills by Masyaf. To hear him babble about the woman he most often visits, it almost sounds as though he's in love. "But it's more dangerous with a family."

"Dangerous? Then that's a hard way to live. It's Allah's intention that we should marry and raise children if we can. Families are blessings."

"They're burdens," Malik says. "Blessed burdens."

"I'm _sorry_ about the cowl thing," Kadar groans. "And the using-your-name thing. And the brothel-ladies-like-me-more-than-they-like-you thing."

"What? They do not."

"Why else do you never go?"

"Because some of us have better things to do with our time. Training, working with the novices, missions..."

"Yes, yes." Kadar nods. "You have fun training novices. That sounds very satisfying. Really."

"I take back the bit about you being a blessing."

Kadar throws an arm about Malik's shoulders. With a laugh he says, "Oh, don't be mad, _akhi."_

Hamid is watching them with shining eyes. "Your father would be so proud to see the two of you. So proud. I don't, I don't have much space but if you're ever in Damascus and need a place to spend the night..."

"Thank you, _Sayyid,"_ says Malik, and just like that it strikes him why this reunion should feel so strange. Hamid was a dear friend of the A-Sayf patriarch, was often around for meals, and Malik was taught to consider him a sort of revered uncle. There was familiarity.

Now Malik finds himself speaking to the merchant as he might any other friendly stranger. Is it the Brotherhood that has drawn such a thick line between lives? Hamid could never understand the riddles he isn't allowed to know. Or would this gathering be awkward no matter what, in the face of all the lost time, in Hamid's creaky excitement?

Malik says, "We should leave. The _Rafik_ of our Order is expecting us back." And though it's the truth, it feels more like an defense, and sounds more like a lie.

_-i-_

The A-Sayf brothers leave _Sayyid_ Hamid's shop with promises of frequent visits, of cooperation between merchant and Brotherhood, of lives to be spent connected once more. "Who knows?" Hamid rejoices. "Maybe there are other survivors, _inshallah_. I thought all the village was gone but you're here before my eyes. Truly only Allah knows anything for sure."

On the way back to the bureau, Kadar chatters in a similar fashion. "What a shock that he's alive, Malik! Hard to believe. Of all the stores for the _Rafik_ to send us to..."

"Mm," says Malik, who's mulling over that last fact himself. What _are_ the chances? The bureau leader runs his own city, but nothing is done without guidance from Al Mualim. But how could even the Master have possibly known...? And why would he choose to share his knowledge in such a way?

Kadar trots down the narrow street, boots kicking at the dirt, old buildings leaning over him from either side. "We'll have to stop by to see him every time we're here. Maybe he could come back with us to Masyaf sometimes, since he misses traveling so much. A merchant could do well there, especially if it's been a while since a caravan passed through. Hamid looked so much happier when we left. It's great to see him again."

Malik reaches out and grabs his brother by the arm, pulling him to a halt by some scaffolding. Kadar looks back at him, still smiling.

"What is it? Are there guards up ahead?"

"You don't..." says Malik, and hesitates before continuing on. "You don't remember _Sayyid_ Hamid, do you?"

Kadar's expressive eyes widen, then dim. "I—of course I..." Then he shakes his head. He's taller than Malik, and yet with the grey sleeves of his uniform bunched about his wrists he still looks so small. "I remember the name," he mumbles. "When I was younger you mentioned it once or twice."

"There's no shame in it. You were barely six. _I_ didn't recognize him at first."

"But I haven't forgotten all of it! I remember Father had a couple close friends...there was someone named Maram and he had...he had...three sons...?" Kadar screws up his face in concentration. "Was he the one who divorced his wife?"

Malik says gently, "Hamid had three sons. Maram lived with his nephew. And he loved his wife."

Kadar's shoulders slump. "Oh. I guess I forgot."

"It's not your fault. I should have talked about them more."

But Kadar says, with unexpected fierceness, "I'm glad you didn't. What would've been the point? I probably would've forgotten everyone anyway. Why would we want to keep suffering? Everyone from the village is dead except for _Sayyid_ Hamid, and I don't even know him. I never knew a man from our village who was that old and worn-down."

"But..."

"What does it matter if I've forgotten? What good would it've done to carry all that extra misery around? The fighting instructors always say that an assassin's gotta fight with a clear head."

"It's our home. We should at least remember that," says Malik.

Kadar throws this aside with a flash of his eyes. "Masyaf is our home! You're an assassin, not a shepherd. I know how to fight, not till fields, and if I wanted to actually read the Quran I could. That's what I remember about my life. Who cares about the rest of it?"

He starts walking again, as if to put distance between himself and his own words. Malik follows, because he certainly can't let Kadar stalk off on his own, and the two spend the next several minutes in silence. Is it an argument? Not quite.

The bureau comes into view, though an untrained eye would confuse it for a simple potter's shop. Assassins enter through the secret door on the roof, and as Malik turns to find a foothold to scale the nearest wall, he hears Kadar sigh.

The younger brother says, "I don't remember what Father's voice sounded like. When I realized I'd forgotten I tried so hard to get it back. But it hasn't worked. Father, and Mother too, I...I don't really remember them that well." He hangs back in the alley, perhaps expecting censure.

But all Malik does is turn to face him, try to smile. There is an ending here, and in the parting there is grief.

"Yeah," he says. "Me either."


	17. Part Two: Chapter One

AN: First thing's first:** please note the rating change.** The end of this chapter is graphic. I guess I'm not the first person to write awkward hardish-core. If you want to skip the worst of it, avoid everything written between the bolded **_-i-._**

(As for how much sex, I did my best to keep it within site guidelines, but honestly: 1) I've read some seriously raunchy stuff on here that no one seems to mind, 2) mature is mature is mature, 3) I'm not all that good at writing erotica. _Pronouns_.)

Next: I has fanart! You guys are the best reviewers/readers ever, and as proof of that there are links in my profile to three gorgeous works based off this monster, from two talented artists. Check them out!

Next next: A couple people have been wondering about Malik's eagle vision, and my answer is that it's a strong case of artistic license. Why should Altair get to be the only one who gets to have all the fun and superpowers? I was working off the idea that eagle vision is a trait of the descendants of The Ones Who Came Before, and figured that Malik could at least have a little bit of that lineage in him.

Last: I'm sorry for the updating delays; I've been trying to juggle a lot of different projects/work-related things/having a social life. Also, writing erotica is _hard_. But hey, you guys are lucky. You could be following my other multichapter fic. Six month gaps between updates there have become the pathetic norm.

* * *

_**With Madness and Possession **_

Al Masyaf never changes, not really. Not in ways that matter. Assassins are sent out and killed and replaced by nervous novices. _Rafiks_ in their beards and black robes scuttle to and from the fortress. Al Mualim appears at times to watch the daily intricacies of his order, to judge: and other times, more frequent the past few years, his physical presence is nowhere to be found, though everyone is wary of his looming gaze nonetheless. The Master has been spending more and more time locked in his private chambers, and what he's doing there not even the few Master Assassins dare to ask.

Al Masyaf stays the same. And in the main courtyard of the village's fortress, Malik waits.

It's late in the afternoon. He's spent most of the day watching Rauf train a new group of novices, none older than ten. Malik finds it easy to recognize himself in their awkward first punches, their jumpy preteen bravado. Though technically still a journeyman in age Rauf is a full instructor now, and his rank will probably never rise much higher than it already has. But he doesn't seem to mind; he's good at what he does, and he's long known he was being primed for this position.

Malik sits down on a bench along one of the fortress's broad outer walls, keeping one eye on the events inside the training ring. The novices amuse him, especially the younger ones. Their deference is entertaining but unexpected. It isn't as though he's a Master Assassin yet! He's only twenty one.

(But the Brotherhood is rife with rumors…)

"Daydreaming, are you? Don't let Al Mualim see."

Malik stirs as Abbas approaches him, something of a surprise. Abbas takes his guard duties seriously and rarely steps away from his position by the entrance. Malik often comes by the training ring on rare free days, because Rauf will still chat as he works, and will sometimes usher Malik into the ring to demonstrate some tricky move. Not so with Abbas, who will frown and stare straight ahead as if Al Mualim is ever at his back, making a note of every lapse.

Who knows? Maybe he is. It wouldn't be the strangest thing their Master has done.

Malik stands up again, arms folded across his chest, and shrugs. "Just waiting for Kadar," he says. "He should be back from Damascus any day now."

Abbas says, "He's only been gone for three months. It could have been a much longer separation."

"I know that. It isn't as though I've been sitting around the entire time."

"Of course not. They're grooming you to become a Master Assassin. Of course, you've been so busy." Abbas's eyes flicker and he taps a finger against his chin. Just as Rauf reluctantly agreed to shave off his beard, because fighting instructors wear masks and his facial hair was so ridiculous he couldn't get the fabric to sit right against his face, Abbas announced his intent to grow one. It was his religious obligation, he said, and now he wears it as if it gives him a scholar's wisdom.

Even now that they're in their twenties, and long since past childish quarrels, Abbas seems to think Malik's being a lapsed Muslim is a crime on par with Templarhood. Or maybe it's all an act. Hard to tell with Abbas these days. Sullen Abbas, made a guard and not a Master Assassin, never sent from the village, never called to give accounts of his training to the Master as Malik himself has done.

Hard to tell with Abbas because the childhood friendship has been sour for the past six years and the understanding that came with closeness is gone. Even Rauf, though still friendly, still jovial, is no longer quite the comrade he'd been. Everyone knows that Malik's future is as a Master Assassin, though Malik might deny it to anyone who asks. Gone are the days when he could fool around with Rauf and Abbas as equals, because when he spars with Rauf now he has a distinct suspicion that the other man is letting him win. As for Abbas…they are polite to each other, and back when Abbas was still sent away from Masyaf on missions they worked together well. But their camaraderie never did recover from the insults they slung as overdramatic sixteen-year-olds.

Overdramatic, Malik thinks now, watching Abbas watch him, but not _wrong_. There was a choice to be made and the elder A-Sayf made it. Maybe he was foolish to choose as he did, maybe half-mad with pain and stress, maybe too rash and too emotional, too distracted by the weird urgings of that thing between his legs—

Maybe all of that and more, but it's no matter now. When he sits down for meals, when he trains in the main courtyard, when he goes for rooftop runs, it isn't Abbas or Rauf who's always at his side.

"They'll be sending you out again soon, I'm sure. Enjoy the rest while you have it."

"Mm. I'll enjoy it more once I know that Kadar hasn't kidnapped by bandits on his way home."

"Give him some credit for his training. The Order has more than one decent assassin in its ranks."

"I'm sure, but the mission was to deal with a Templar captain." Malik shakes his head. "It'll be his first kill. I would have preferred to be near him for that."

"He's an assassin," says Abbas. "He'll do what he has to do."

Abruptly Malik turns away, shoulders stiffening. Abbas hasn't said anything that isn't true, but it doesn't mean Malik wants hear him say it.

The guardsman moves back to his post, and in the training ring Rauf is busy scolding a novice for poor stance. Malik drifts from the courtyard, noting without meaning to how many of his fellow assassins nod at him in respect. When did they all stop looking at him as one Brother out of many? Now here he is on the cusp of his next rank, having spent a mere six years as journeyman. What comes next is…

What comes next is the final fulfillment of duty. If he is really to become a Master Assassin, then what comes next is probably an early death.

He strides down the path that curves down the mountain until he reaches the one tall building that squats on the village's third tier. It looms over the rest of the village, three or so stories worth of clay and a flat, thatched roof. Wooden beams thrust from the building's old, crumbling sides. It isn't rare to glance up and see an assassin or two lurking, eyeing the rest of Masyaf for some practice mission. The fact that it's easy to see someone standing there makes it less useful as a checkpoint, but Malik isn't bothering with stealth right now.

As long as he's nothing else to do, he might as well keep a look-out for Kadar's return. Seventeen year old Kadar is no less likely to go wandering off a cliff.

He grabs for the first handhold and hauls himself up. The beams run all the way to the roof, making for a straight and easy climb—but as Malik maneuvers upwards someone soars past him, a lithe blur jumping from beam to beam in a needless, complicated zigzag. Malik flattens himself against the building, careful to maintain his grip because a fall from this high up would hurt. Once he's sure his feet are steady he finishes the climb.

Altair is, of course, waiting for him on the roof. He taps one leather boot against the thatch in an impatient rhythm, probably without realizing he's doing it. Though assassins usually climb up here for the view, he keeps his back to Masyaf: Altair doesn't bother to look out, only assumes that all is as he expects it to be.

Malik sighs, dusting himself off. "Wonderful," he says. "I'm impressed with your ability to climb a building ninety percent of Masyaf has already climbed a dozen times. Truly your skills leave me humbled."

"As they should," says Altair, and he flashes a tight grin.

Altair has not changed much in the past few years, at least not in appearance. He's tall, still pale as a Christian, still beardless as one too. His cowl dips low over his eyes, but there's no hiding the faint scar across his lip…at least not from Malik, who looks for it almost as habit these days. His wide journeyman's belt is lined with more throwing knives than most journeymen will ever see. As his skills continue to amaze, his arrogance continues to chafe.

Although he isn't so haughty around Malik. Rauf jokes that he's just gotten used to the older man's irritating ways, but Malik isn't so sure. Who says Altair can't have some decency buried inside, albeit rather far down?

"So what do you want?"

"Who says I want anything? Perhaps I just felt like climbing after you."

"Or you felt like bothering me. That's something you're very good at."

"I would never want to bother you, Brother." Altair draws out the word _bother_ with another flashing grin, so that Malik feels himself flush for no reason at all.

"Oh no?" he counters, trying to recover. "But you do it so often."

"If I'm bothering you," and again Altair drags out the word, _bo-thhh-er_, practically a hiss, "then I'll go."

Malik rubs his forehead. "After all these years I'm used to you. You might as well stay."

"Yes," says Altair, "I might as well."

Just like that he's slipping forward, fast as a loosed arrow, drawing shut the space between them until his hands are on Malik's shoulders, pushing him down. Malik is so rarely caught off-guard, so rarely left without time to plan; he can reason through the scant seconds between a guard's lifting a sword and swinging it down. Yet now he is scrambling to follow in Altair's shadow. He doesn't like the change at all.

Malik finds himself sitting down hard, distractedly grateful that since the building is used for storage there won't be any angry tenants wondering at all the banging from above. He puts his hands flat against the thatch for support, bits of straw prickling against his palms. Altair leans forward, kneeling down in anything but supplication, until he's leaning over Malik with one knee between the other man's drawn-up legs. He rests a hand against Malik's chest and smirks.

"What…!" the younger man snarls, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice. "What the hell do you think you're _doing_, you idiot novice? And why are you doing it up here? Everyone can see!"

"No one's looking," says Altair dismissively. "I checked."

"When did you check? And how? Masyaf is a den of spies, _ya hmar! _You have no idea who's watching."

"If someone was watching I would know. And so would you. Don't forget that the two of us actually have some talent." In one swift movement Altair shifts his position, and now his knee is pressing right against Malik's groin—

"Oh, enough." Malik elbows Altair in the face, knocking him over. He crosses his legs, refusing to admit that he's hunching over for a reason, and waits for Altair to right himself into a similar position before launching into the fiercest lecture he can manage:

"Enough of this! Over and over, the same thing. For years!"

"That should tell you something," Altair mutters, rubbing at his jaw.

"It tells me that you're sick in the head. Go to the brothel if you're so desperate for a fuck. It's there for a reason."

"I've no interest in it," Altair says with a fresh scowl.

Malik falters for a second because he knows it's true. Altair never goes there. Still he tries, "How can you have no interest in it? Those women are gorgeous."

"There's enough weakness within the Brotherhood itself. Why would I want to willingly surround myself with more?"

"Well-…it isn't _normal_, what you're after."

Altair hackles. "Are we normal men? Nothing is true, everything is permitted, and—and why should we of all people care about the whims of religion? Let Abbas worry himself grey over heaven and hell."

"It isn't religion I'm talking about. No culture on Earth would look favorably on what you want. Not a single person in the world."

"I don't care."

"No…I know you don't."

"And neither do you."

"Obviously I do, if I've spent the last six years pushing you off."

"You kissed me," says Altair, and Allah _damn_ that smile of his. Malik wouldn't be surprised to see the bastard lick his lips in hunger. "How many times? Twice on the first mission—"

"Once on the first mission! The first time, out of nowhere you shoved your tongue down my throat."

"And clearly you enjoyed it."

"I was _delirious_ the second time."

"And the third? And that time in training when you…" Altair shoves himself forward again, so that he's back to towering over Malik as though to devour him, and if Malik knew he'd try it again why does he still feel so unprepared to resist? "Your excuses are pathetic. Acting as if you give a damn about other societies, other men. As if you really think yourself that common. How many times have you come after me, only to pull away at the last second? It's not like you to be hesitant, _Brother_."

"So, what?" Malik asks in exasperation, "Would you lie with me as if I were a woman?"

Altair presses closer. "Would you run screaming to the nearest _imam_ if I tried?"

Malik elbows him in the face again. "You'd be the one screaming," he says.

"Prove it."

"_Enough."_

"I agree. Enough of this dithering. We aren't children or religious fools. We're assassins, aren't we? We take what we want."

"You assume I want whatever deviant grotesqueries are lurking in your malformed brain."

Altair bristles at the bit about his brain. He says again, "Nothing is true and everything is permitted. Deviance shouldn't frighten you."

"There's a difference between being frightened and being genuinely disgusted."

"Oh," says Altair with that damning smile, "we both know you aren't either one. I've seen you both angry and frightened," Malik frowns but doesn't argue, "and that hunger in your eyes comes from neither."

"You sound so sure. Presumptuous as always."

But Altair laughs, which is never a good sign. In a tone of voice that gives him fangs he says, "I'm not presuming a thing. The bulge between your legs tells me everything I need to know."

He grinds his knee against Malik again and there's a flash of heat that cuts through him, so strong it almost hurts, Malik has to force himself not to gasp but his eyes widen anyway, and Altair looks as though he's been crowned Master of the Brotherhood—

Allah damn his stupid face!

Malik feels himself reddening, and so to mask it he twists away and yells, "Worry less about what's between my legs if you want to keep what's between yours."

"Fine. Go to the harlots in the brothel and pretend they keep you satisfied. If that's really what you want."

"I've gone to the brothel five times in the past two years," Malik says. "I'll never understand this jealousy of yours. Have you mistaken me for Rauf? _He's_ the one who goes once a week, not me. There's no shame in an occasional visit…"

"And you enjoy it there?" Altair asks with a curl of his lip.

"Are you lecturing me? You _are_."

"I only asked a question."

"You're lecturing me like an old man while you…_prod_ at me with your knee. Altair, my friend, you are ridiculous. How does anyone ever take you seriously?"

On cue, Altair draws back his knee. "I only asked if you enjoyed the brothel," he says in a withering voice.

"Yes, because this is the perfect time to ask such a thing. Here, now, on top of this building where all Masyaf can see us, while you're straddling me like a drunkard wrapped around his whore."

"I thought there was nothing shameful in the brothel. Don't you chat about it with all the…all the rest of them? Rauf and whoever else? You must talk about it with _them_."

"Very rarely while on top of buildings, though, and never in this position. You know, if you felt left out of our conversations you could have joined in."

"You're laughing."

Altair scowls and draws back even further, until the position loses its salaciousness and they've gone back to sitting cross-legged, staring at each other. Malik straightens up and tries not to look too ruffled. "I'm not," he says, "I'm not laughing," but it's hard to keep his voice steady. What else did Altair _expect_? To have this conversation…for the Son of None to prance up here like a peacock showing off, acting drunk or demented…of course Malik is about to laugh! The only other option would be to take him seriously.

But Altair is frowning as though Malik's betrayed his deepest trust. That's surprising. And uncomfortable.

"Yes," Malik says finally, with a slight shake of his head. "Yes, I enjoy myself when I go to the brothel. Is that all you wanted to know? Occasionally I go to the brothel and sleep with a woman and it's quite nice. You should go more often."

(But even as he says that, he pictures Altair lying content with a woman and feels his stomach lurch; against all reason he knows a possessiveness as unnatural as it is familiar. Is this the same emotion forever keening from Altair's eyes?

_Mine. You're mine. I'm the one who puts up with you.)_

Altair looks no less sulky. "This conversation is stupid."

"I agree. Why are we having it?"

"You are a hypocrite," says Altair with a toss of his head, letting his gaze linger elsewhere as if to show his disinterest in Malik as a whole, "You cling to the rules of weaker men as an excuse. You hide from difficult choices by claiming to care about what others think. As if you ever have. You…"

He stops, with his eyes still turned towards the village. He narrows them in concentration.

Malik forgets to be angry at the insults when Altair leaps to his feet. "What is it?" he asks, but Altair is already running for the rooftop's edge.

"Come on," the Son of None barks. Then he's leaping, throwing himself towards the ground though there's no hay below. It doesn't matter. He rolls as he hits the dirt and regains his footing without stumbling a bit. Malik curses and follows after, bracing for the hard landing, wondering, _what has gotten into him now?_

Altair is advancing towards the main path, and Malik is about to call out again when realization hits him and he squints against the light. His weak eagle's vision looks all the more faded in broad daylight, Masyaf a patchwork of grey and blue washed out—but Malik squints harder and sees, for a second, a bright and angry red.

_Enem_y.

The man is dressed as one of them, in a typical journeyman's robes and sash. That he doesn't look familiar is no surprise, because assassins come and go at the whim of their Master. But as Malik lets the eagle's vision fade, wincing at the headache it's brought, he sees one last bolt of red and knows. Even without the vision he'd know: this man alone out of all the crowd had jumped at Altair's abrupt descent.

Those who live in Al Masyaf are used to assassins leaping about. This man, dressed and hooded as a Brother, stopped to stare and stares even now. Not even a novice would fall for such a trick.

Altair advances on the man with shoulders squared back in his usual swagger. The man realizes at the last second he's been found out and reaches quickly for his sword, but the assassin is much too fast for him. He grabs the man's sword arm, twists it back as the man yelps, and knees him in the stomach twice in quick succession. He drops the man, then, lets him crumple to the ground while standing over him as an eagle might puff out its feathered chest, talons gripping its fresh catch.

"A spy," Altair announces over the man's groans. "Not even smart enough to recognize when he'd been discovered."

"Must be a Templar," Malik agrees, "to be so foolish."

Then he lashes out, throwing three knives as the surrounding crowd ducks and gasps. The knives dart for Altair, who quirks an eyebrow in bemusement before dropping to his knees at the last possible second. He misses the knives by the barest inch.

The man standing behind him, curved dagger still held high in both hands for a killing blow, isn't so lucky.

Malik relaxes. To Altair's credit he only looks a very little surprised as he gets back to his feet and studies the second man, bleeding and moaning, throwing knives making a neat pattern down the center of his chest. He's also dressed as an assassin, but that dagger is no Brotherhood weapon.

"Probably a poisoned blade," Malik calls. "Don't touch it."

"Two spies, then."

"Maybe more. We'll have to warn Al Mualim."

Altair turns to scan the crowd before him, and Malik knows he's using his own eagle's vision. "There aren't any spies besides these two," he decides. Malik believes him but is reminded of something else and frowns.

"How did you know that first man was the enemy?" he asks.

"I saw that he was."

"How?"

"How else?"

"But you were hardly paying attention…" Malik knows Altair well enough to know he won't be getting any easy answers, but he's still amazed. They never talk about eagle's vision, and even the instructors rarely mention it; some assassins have it, most don't, probably Al Mualim does, and no one is really sure what it is or from where it comes. Malik can use it in small doses, so long as he's willing to fight off his headache afterwards, but it doesn't last long and he has to be really focused. It flickers off the moment he turns his head.

Can Altair really draw on his so quickly, so at whim? And why was he using it at all just then? Unless for him it's habit. Unless the Eagle of Masyaf is always keeping watch. "Malik," he starts to say, but is interrupted by the grunts of the first spy as he clambers back to his feet.

"Assassin scum," he screams, predictably. He thrusts his sword in Altair's direction and takes what he must think is a threatening stance. Altair quirks another eyebrow before sinking back into the comforts of his cowl. He smiles.

Malik smiles too, and settles down in the shade of the storage building to watch the Son of None work.

_-i-_

"You know," he says later, as they trudge toward Al Mualim's library, "You never answered my question before. Why were we having that conversation?"

Altair just shrugs. "You'll figure it out," he says. "You won't always be so defensive, and I'll always be more stubborn than you."

"Whatever you say," Malik sighs. Then he glances behind the other man and winces. "You're going to kill him like that," he says.

Altair shrugs again.

"Al Mualim probably wants these two alive."

"Yours is the one with three knives in his chest."

"I know. He's bleeding all down the back of my tunic." But Malik has at least slung the maybe-dead spy over his shoulder; Altair seems content to drag his target along the rocky ground by the leg. Other assassins on the path see them coming and quickly move aside.

For a little while the only sound is of one of the spies groaning, though Malik's not sure which. Probably Altair's, although really that man could have fared _so_ much worse. The Son of None was an impressive fighter six years ago. Now?

Now he's twenty one years worth of cool blood-thirst and muscle. He's grown lean and taut; assassins by nature tend to be smaller, thinner, with the sort of ropey strength that can hide beneath scholar's robes as easily as fell giants of men. Malik and Altair both meet the standard, even surpass it, but though Malik is faster and (he suspects) lighter on his feet, there is no doubt as to the stronger fighter. No doubt at all.

Altair is quicker to climb and to jump, prefers all sorts of trickery involving high ledges over Malik's tendency towards straight, long runs. He's all but welded his sword hilt to his hand. He fights with a ferocity that startles even their instructors. Perhaps he's never stopped punishing himself for their first mission, because though his forced Master Assassin training only lasted two months he's never stopped pushing his body as far as it will go. Malik has never missed a leap of faith, but Altair…Altair _flies_.

Yes, the spy was very lucky indeed. Both assassins have a trail of bodies stretching back six years, back to that first miserable mission. Once a man kills the first time, there is so little keeping him from killing again, and neither of them shies away from violence now. What would be the point?

"A good fight," says Altair as they near the fortress gates.

"Yes. Though it was pretty short."

"My apologies. Next time I'll drag things out."

"See that you do, novice."

They grin at each other in the shadow of the fortress, and never has Malik felt more like an assassin, or more at home.

_-i-_

It all happens so fast. Malik finds himself caught off-guard.

When it happens he's scowling down at a letter arrived that morning, a letter which says in Kadar's terrible handwriting that his mission has been extended. The Templar captain was working with another man. Riots are being instigated in the poor districts and Kadar is expected to discover why. Something about a runaway horse cart?

Six years later and Kadar still spells his name _kleeve_. Point being, he won't return from Damascus for at least another month. Malik knows he shouldn't be bothered, but he is. Kadar is an assassin and can protect himself and knows how to fight…yes, yes, _fine_, but he still gets distracted by interesting rocks! Malik's still the only one who can read his letters. He shouldn't be off roaming Damascus on his own.

So Malik is fretting about his brother when it happens: when the masked assassin finds him in the otherwise empty corridor and announces his presence has been requested by Master Al Mualim. Malik follows his silent emissary, Kadar's letter shoved under his belt for later. The summoning isn't rare, but he's surprised to see Altair already waiting in front of their Master's desk in the main hall. Altair eyes him as he approaches and gives a small shrug. Malik raises an eyebrow.

Then Al Mualim turns from his window. He smiles to see them, a real smile, the kind that would have kept a younger Altair bragging for weeks. Malik drops into a slight bow out of respect. He's expecting to be sent out on a mission, but most of his mind is still on Kadar's delayed return.

The Master says, "The Creed. Repeat it for me, if you would."

Dutifully his assassins answer, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

"And its tenets?"

"Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Be unseen. Never compromise the Brotherhood."

"By now you have both killed."

"Yes."

"Your swords are stained with the blood of men who had to die."

"Yes."

"For the goals of the Assassin Brotherhood you would sacrifice all you had."

"Yes," says Altair. Malik moves his lips but doesn't quite make a sound. No one notices.

"And you will continue to do your duty, though you might take no pleasure in it." Al Mualim nods, as if assured of something. He gestures, and Malik glances over to see two more masked assassins approaching the desk, each carrying something wrapped in cloth. Altair looks as confused as Malik feels. The objects are placed on the desk, one before Malik and one before Altair. The cloth is unwrapped to reveal something made of leather and steel.

_Hidden blades._ Malik exhales sharply. But only Master Assassins…

His gaze snaps towards Al Mualim. Beside him Altair is still staring at the weapon with something near lust in his eyes.

"Don't expect too much yet," chuckles Al Mualim. "Only Master Assassins may wield the hidden blade. You've both a few years yet to go. These are dulled blades: they won't do as much damage, they won't hold up as well in a fight. Nor will they require you to sacrifice a finger. The blade is shorter and set further back, it will break off if you aren't careful. But these will allow you to learn the feel of the blade weighing down your arm. They will show you how to strike."

Malik watches Altair slowly reach forward to pick up his blade. He turns it around in his hands, studying the leatherwork of the brace, running a finger along the metal of the cutting edge.

Al Mualim says, "You must understand that this is a rare event. But that business with the spies confirmed what I've long suspected. You are ready, both of you, young as you are. Ready to finish what few men ever start. This is the last stretch of training."

"Yes," breathes Altair. "Yes, Master."

"Don't mistake me," cautions the old man, though he smiles into his graying beard. His dead eye is as foggy and unnerving as it was when first trained onto a starving ten year old, all those years ago. "You still have many years ahead of you before you will be ready for that final sacrifice. Until then you may wear only these dulled, weaker blades. You are not Master Assassins yet."

He nods his head. "But neither are you journeymen any longer. In respect of your new positions you'll be given private rooms within the fortress, and you'll be exempt from any restrictions on your movement when not on missions. That much trust can be shown to those who have worked hard to deserve it."

Altair asks, "We'll still be sent out on missions?"

"Yes, difficult ones. Danger and glory will follow your every step. Rest assured, my child…by the time you are a Master Assassin, all the Brotherhood will know your name."

"Yes," says Altair again. He cradles the hidden blade to his chest as if it were a child. Malik picks his up, feels the heft of it, tests the blade against his wrist.

"I am proud of you," says Al Mualim. "Both of you. You bring honor to the Order, and you more than anyone else will be responsible for what it becomes." But he's looking only at Altair when he speaks. Malik feels almost as if he is intruding. He himself will tell Kadar the amazing news when the younger man returns, and that will be enough. Al Mualim's praise…

Al Mualim's praise is a father's delight in his son. Malik takes a quiet step back and turns his head. He can give Altair that, if nothing else.

Except that he's wrong. He can give Altair much more besides.

**_-i-_**

The new bedroom is small, tucked away in an isolated part of the sprawling fortress. Behind the wooden door is a bed with heavy sheets, a table holding a jar of unlit incense. There's one window, also small, lined with decorative bars as most of them are. The ceiling slopes downwards at the far end of the room, creating a little space too cramped for a man to be able to stand upright. There are two trunks sitting there, and a curtain has been tacked to the ceiling; Malik understands that this cordoned-off space is for storage of his meager belongings.

Propped up against the wall facing the bed is a large piece of clean glass cut into a wooden frame. Malik glances at his reflection before laying his hidden blade on the table and sitting on the bed. His face looks as it always does: thick brows, high cheekbones, a beard just _there_ enough to hide his chin and darken the line of his jaw. He looks the same as ever but he feels imperceptibly changed.

He stretches stiff shoulders, wincing at the tightness in his back. Who could have imagined that he'd bear such wounds, grudges made physical and carved into his skin? With his mind a million miles away he removes his belt and sash and boots, peels off the cowl. Methodically he undresses until he's in nothing but loose under-tunic and leggings.

The hidden blade, retracted into its leather brace, is still on the table. Malik has yet to strap it to his wrist. When he receives the real thing, years from now, he knows the leather will be decorated and the blade sharp enough to slice cleanly through flesh and bone. But for now, what he has is a practice weapon. A glimmer of the future.

Malik turns to look again at the blade and when he does, he sees Altair standing shadowed in his doorway. Watching.

"Oh," says Malik. "Is your room off the same hall?"

Altair nods and takes a step closer, letting the door bang shut behind him. His hidden blade is already strapped to his wrist, which really isn't a surprise.

"Who knew this was what Al Mualim was planning?"

"I knew," says Altair. "I wasn't sure exactly when or exactly how. But I knew."

"Ah. Of course. You know everything, after all. Well." Malik tilts his head. "We aren't quite Master Assassins yet, but it looks like you were right. My congratulations, Brother."

"I don't accept them. I don't want them."

Malik stand up, the backs of his legs brushing against the bed. "What is it you want, then?"

Then Altair's hands are on his shoulders and his mouth is nipping at the side of his neck and it takes Malik a good minute to remember he needs to breath. The room is suddenly far too hot. He grunts as Altair's hands find fresh purchase under his tunic, against the bare skin of his shoulder blades and he can feel the other man smirking against his neck as slowly he licks the spot where he's just bitten.

"Altair," says Malik, and, "Enough," and, "Will you just…"

But Altair is growling against him, fierce and greedy and damn him for that smirk, Malik doesn't need to be told how feeble his protests are. He knows he could shove Altair off if he tried, as he's done before, as he's been doing for years—he knows he could—but, _God_, he can feel that ache in his gut that only comes when Altair touches him and he can feel himself growing harder by the moment.

Oh, none of this makes any sense. Men don't want other men in this way. No one with half a brain wants Altair in _any_ way. It's disgusting, and a twisting of the almighty Creed. Propriety and societal custom and everything they've ever been taught forbid this.

"_Idiot_," Malik grumbles, and kisses Altair back.

It's strange because Malik is far beyond the realm he knows and so has to follow along after Altair, because while Malik is no virgin he's also never done this with another man. Never thought it _could_ be done with another man. He lets Altair push him back against the bed so that his head hits the mattress, he lets Altair straddle him and put his hands everywhere, his mouth everywhere. Malik barely recognizes himself in his own actions, but he's grabbing at the other man just as tightly. Altair leads and Malik hurries after and he's spent his whole life telling himself he wasn't clinging to the Son of None as a follower to the confident leader might, but really—

But really, Altair's always been ahead. Just one step ahead, and Malik…Malik has deluded himself into thinking this was something he didn't notice, didn't mind, didn't want to change…

This will end so badly.

It's strange, kissing another man. Having another man grab at him. Feeling another man's erection pressing against his leg. There's strength in the arms that hold him and it takes Malik a moment to adjust to the change.

Altair, still fully dressed down to the weapons on his belt, is a totally different man now, possessed by some inner demon. There's nothing gentle about his hands or mouth, teeth or tongue, but that's good. If he'd tried to go _soft_ and _kind_, if he'd tried to turn this into a husband bedding his blushing bride, Malik would have punched him. As it is Malik matches every bruise Altair gives. He digs his fingernails into the other man's side, tugging at the belt and sash. He wants to see the marks he's making.

Of course Altair's trying to undress Malik at the same time, so they keep bumping into each other. Nothing about this is smooth or easy; they clash now as they so often do elsewhere. Throwing knives are dropped and scatter everywhere. Malik finds himself growing clumsy with impatience. He tries to tug off Altair's cowl but the man tosses his head, pulling free. Malik tugs harder. There's no way he'll submit to having sex with a masked ghost. But Altair jerks away, more stubborn—or maybe Malik's just too eager to bother with the idiot's idiosyncrasies.

He sits back, leaning on his elbows, hair already matted down with sweat. Altair is missing his weapons now, looks oddly thin and naked without them, or maybe that's just because he really _is_ naked, except for the cowl. Malik, still wearing his leggings, outright stares. It isn't the first time he's seen the man unclothed before; they grew up sleeping in the same room, without any kind of privacy, and nudity stopped being awkward the second time one of them had to dress in a hurry for the training ring. But they were children then.

Altair's adult body is almost hairless, but for between his legs, and so pale. He kneels on the bed in a coil of long limbs, not bothering to hide himself. There isn't an ounce of him that isn't muscle, and most of those muscles are flecked with scars. Malik reaches out with some curiosity and presses his thumb against a white fleck he doesn't recognize, across the stomach. Where did this come from? And this one? This one, running jagged and messy over his ribcage? On what mission did Altair get _this_?

Still wondering he twists his thumb just so, digging the nail into the scar. Altair stiffens but doesn't move away. Malik drags his thumb a bit, watches the red line that rises in its wake. Does that hurt? It should. He looks everywhere but down, for now.

Altair puts up with this inspection for as long as his patience lasts, which isn't very long. Then, without any sort of preamble, he tugs Malik's leggings down with one hand and grabs Malik's prick with the other.

Malik gasps and falls back against the bed, head tilted against the mattress. Altair leans over him, hand stroking incessantly, eager to watch every quiver and hear every moan. He presses his free hand against Malik's throat in a bit of posturing. Malik tries to keep himself calm, not wanting to give the other man that much power, but he's so hard already and it's never felt like this with any of the brothel women. He wants to yell so badly that biting at his own lip is the only control he has. At least the door is closed.

The older man leans forward, eyes narrowed, and as he strokes his teeth bite into hot flesh. Malik shudders as if struck, writhing underneath. Altair knows what he's doing, somehow. He runs his thumb over the tip, close enough that his own erection brushes against Malik's groin, and—oh! those slender, calloused fingers!

Malik's vision flares white. At the last possible second he grabs Altair's shoulder and shoves him back, breaking away from the hand working him half out of his mind, though his body moans with need. He wants to cry out, to lose himself, but he won't let it be that easy. Not for Altair Ibn La'Ahad.

Altair reaches for him again. He twists away and snaps, "Hold _on_," taking the moment to catch his breath and kick away the leggings. But if he waits too long he'll have time to think this whole insane thing over. Before that can happen he grabs at Altair and kisses his stomach, his chest, nips at his ear. Altair sighs, out of pleasure but also vanity, that Malik should be willing to touch him. They're working together more easily now, more graceful, though their bodies still clash: Malik's dark skin, his arms and chest lined with hair, his own scars held against the Son of None.

They're both panting by now. It's rare to see Altair so disheveled, obviously hungry for release, locks of hair falling out from the cowl and into his eyes. It's also distinctly attractive. Looking at him gives Malik an idea.

He stills his hands, drops down onto his stomach. It's nice to know he can still keep his wits about him when driven wild by his longing to climax. On the other hand Altair bristles, too far gone to take it slow, not that they ever were. "_Malik_," he demands, but whatever else he was going to say sticks in his throat. The choking noise he makes as Malik angles himself properly and takes Altair's prick into his mouth is quite unlike him. With all his panting, he could almost be human.

It can't be a very good blowjob, not when Malik's never given one before, but it gets the man going well enough. Malik is careful with his teeth and tries not to mind the taste—though Altair doesn't taste so bad. The feel and scent and sight of him, trying so desperately to hide his trembling...that's not so bad at all.

Altair is pretty well-endowed and Malik pretty new at this, but still he manages to take the other man in to the root. The trick of it is to avoid the gag reflex, although Altair makes that more difficult when he goes and buries his hand in Malik's hair. His other hand clenches against the bed, his hips jerk, and he begins to thrust ever-so-carefully up into Malik's mouth. When Malik doesn't react in some negative—and _painful_—way, he tugs at his hair to push in harder. Very quickly he forgets about being careful.

Malik puts up with it, wanting to smile. Altair thinks he's in control, it's obvious from how tight a grip he has in Malik's hair. But look at him! Look at the ever-controlled assassin now, shivering with Malik's mouth around his cock, face flushed and eyes needy. Even the cowl can't hide his lust, and that lust makes him weak. Weaker than he realizes. Did he think he could corral another assassin into bed and then decide on every move? How foolish. With a simple swirl of his tongue Malik can make him beg.

"_Yes_," says Altair, gasping. "Malik, keep…yes…_now_."

Malik brings him to the very edge of release and then pulls his mouth away when the assassin's hips begin to buck a little too hard. _Still too easy_, he thinks, and grins to hear Altair's protesting groan. Now they're both desperate. From here on in perhaps they'll…

But all thoughts of control are sent scattering when Altair, with a noise that sounds more angry than aroused, grabs his shoulder, tugs him up and over. Malik finds himself chest-down on the bed, twisting his head to keep from being smothered in the sheets, and before he can reassert himself Altair grabs his hips to jerk them up, shoves his legs open and holds them that way with his knees. Strong hands press flat against Malik's back, holding him still, and though the younger man could probably fight his way free he's too distracted by Altair's hot breath on the back of his neck.

Altair's knees press against the soft flesh of Malik's inner thighs. "Bastard," he says, his voice a breathless snarl. "Are you playing games? _Don't move_."

"Asshole," says Malik, but he stays still as Altair leans over him, still more or less pinned by the older man's weight. There's a rustling as Altair rummages around in a pile of disregarded clothing near the bed's edge, finally pulling free a pouch from his belt. Malik watches him dig out a little vial, watches his fingers wrestle with the seal, and then decides he doesn't want to watch any longer and closes his eyes.

Altair's fingers are back in a moment, running over his body: along his sides, up and down the backs of his legs. How insatiable those fingers are, to claim every inch of him. Insatiable, and skillful. With these light touches alone Malik has to yell, because he's so damn frantic for release from the pressure between his legs.

"You," he starts to pant out, and realizes. "You've done this before."

Altair says, "Have I?" and bites his shoulder.

"_Unh_," says Malik. "Yes, you have, you…"

"Jealous?"

He can only snarl, helpless with his own body's betrayal. "Just hurry up, _kelbeh_."

Altair does.

He pulls Malik's hips up a bit higher—Malik lets him—reaches between his legs with one hand to tug his cock a couple times more—Malik is about ready to maul him if that will hurry him along—brings his fingers, slippery with whatever was in the vial, against the younger man's backside and—_oh_—

It does hurt, especially at first, but beneath the pain is something else. Something wilder. Altair fucks him, first with two fingers, then with his cock, and Malik clenches his fists against the bed, voice hoarse, half-strangled. As the pain subsides he learns how best to move his body: learns that even like this he can wrench noises from Altair that the assassin wouldn't willingly give.

Altair's hands are as busy at the rest of them, reaching around to jerk at Malik's cock so that he's getting it from both ends. It's almost more than he can process. Every nerve ending in his body feels like it's on fire. "Oh," he moans, "Damn it," and Altair smirks to hear him whimper and pushes harder.

But when he runs a hand along his back, Malik regains some clarity. He arches himself further, both to distract himself and knock aside Altair's hand as it tries to press against the old scarring from the lash. Strange pinpricks of feeling surface from what should be dead skin. Altair's fingers follow the grooves, mindless of the fact that every now and then Malik awakens in the morning with the muscles of his back cramping as though he were an old man.

"Not there," Malik growls, and tries again to shove him off. "Enough, Altair!" His voice catches in his throat because the older man is still inside him; the rhythm and crush of his body threatens to overwhelm. Altair's hand is still resting on his back, but Malik is without enough coherence for further complaint.

"They aren't so ugly," Altair murmurs. "It doesn't look so bad."

In some saner world, where Malik _isn't_ being fucked senseless by an arrogant male assassin, he has the energy to wonder if Altair's almost tender tone isn't an apology, of sorts.

Altair, with a groan from deep in his throat, goes back to grabbing at Malik's prick. It's never been like this at the brothel, not ever, Malik's never been pushed so far and he's never wanted to drag cries out of his partner so badly. Everywhere is heat and the beating of his heart, so loud in his ears. No wonder this is a banned act, it's almost too powerful, Malik is almost frightened by his own body and how he'd do anything right now to find satisfaction. Almost frightened and yet it doesn't matter, because the world has become Altair bruised and moaning in short, stilted bursts, like even now he has a reputation to uphold.

Malik wants to dig his nails into Altair's skin and leave scratches all down his arms. He wants Altair's hand on his throat. He wants—he wants—_demands_—oh, he needs-! Altair thrusts into him and Malik just about loses his mind. He claws at the bed, his body jerks and then the world explodes before his eyes, he shouts as he comes and doesn't give a damn who else might hear. Altair lasts a spare extra second and then climaxes without warning and Malik doesn't care doesn't care doesn't care…

**_-i-_**

When Malik finally stirs awake, it's to the grey weakness of dawn, seeping in through the small window. There are clothes and weapons scattered all across the room. The bed is a mess. _Malik_ is a mess, actually; he aches in ways and in places he simply refuses to think about, and also he feels rather sticky.

He shuts his eyes again, only briefly, unable as an assassin to justify loafing about in bed for any reason. Still—_still_. His memories of last night are so fragmented they don't even seem real. What had he been thinking? How bizarre. How dangerous! If someone had discovered them…not to mention, Altair is sure to be utterly intolerable now. Malik feels his head pound just thinking about the smirks, the preening, the…

At least Altair is smart enough not to blurt out his victory to anyone else. Probably. He can be subtle when he wants to be. In theory. Perhaps.

Malik groans. His future is going to be filled with angry mobs, or worse, with Altair's triumphant boasting. And there's nothing he can do to fix the situation because he's the one who caused it. Malik could have stopped the other man a hundred times over but he didn't, and now Altair will probably be expecting it to happen _again_. There'll be no satisfying him after this.

(No satisfying him, and no satisfying Malik. Last night could never be enough. All the dangers swirl around in his head, all the risks of encouragement and being discovered: Malik knows last night was a mistake and he also knows he doesn't care.

He's going to want Altair again, going to want him naked and slicked with sweat, going to want those slender fingers twisting deep inside. Going to want Altair groaning, his mask broken, his mouth uttering curses and endearments both.

_You're mine,_ he'd said. _Malik. I want you, I've claimed you. You're mine. _And then he'd thrust so hard and fast and deep Malik thought he might break open, only he hadn't, he'd taken everything Altair had given and still wanted more, stronger than the older man had expected, and hungrier too.

Malik is going to want that again.)

A faint rustling pulls him from his musings. He's alone in bed but the rustling came from across the room. Carefully he sits up, flushed and sore. Then he looks over.

Altair is standing there, back to the foot of the bed, facing the piece of framed glass. In his stance is all of the warrior's latent power; he leans his muscled body forward in silent challenge. He stands naked but for the cowl and a scattering of bite-marks. His hidden blade is once again strapped to his arm.

As Malik watches he twists his wrist just so, and the blade pops free from the brace, protruding from between two fingers. It's too small to work as the real thing should, set too far back within the brace to be able to puncture a man's neck beneath his helmet. But Altair studies it with respect, respect he never shows any living thing, and tilts his arm about so that the blade might catch the light.

Malik turns his gaze to study the whole of him in the mirror, his hips and scars and genitals. Any other man might look ridiculous, but not the Son of None. With his hidden blade still glinting in the light he presses his arm against his chest, unworried about catching his own skin on steel.

It's an obvious pose, a threatening one, and Altair holds it for endless seconds. He watches himself in the mirror and then he smiles, really smiles, so different from his usual sneer. His lips pull back to show his teeth and he stands there, a predator's determination in his eyes, a wolf in man's clothing, Altair stands there and there's nothing human in him at all.


	18. Part Two: Chapter Two

AN: This was supposed to be a relatively quick and easy chapter to write. Instead I accidentally added more porn. _Sigh_.

Bolded **_–i- _**are the warning signs. Unfortunately it might be harder to skip the adult content in this chapter, because a large chunk of the plot revolves around, well.

**Edit:** Forgot to say! The sparring at the end is courtesy of _skywalker05._

* * *

_**Protection and Good Fortune**_

The hidden blade isn't a natural weapon. After two weeks of wearing it Malik still knows it's there, strapped against his wrist. Unlike his sword, his dagger, his throwing knives, he never forgets it and it doesn't become merely another part of him. It feels heavy, though his arm is more than strong enough to bare it.

Something about it feels wrong. Designed by an assassin long-forgotten, it almost seems beyond human creativity: that a man could kill simply by grasping another man's shoulder and flicking his wrist is too much power, somehow. And this one is dulled and fettered. The real thing must be twice as heavy.

He tells Altair this, one night, wondering if he might agree. But all the Son of None does is lift an eyebrow, which could mean any one of a hundred things. Anyway his one hand is reaching between Malik's legs, his other yanking off Malik's belt, and there are more urgent things than hidden blades to think about just then.

But still Malik thinks about it. Thinks about its creation and its creator.

Something about the Order feels wrong. Some ghost of a thought, breathing sour breath in his face. Why haven't the assassins been able to stop the Templar forces, with such power at their disposal? Why not help the peasants to rise up against the marauding armies, Christian and Muslim alike, if the assassins truly fight for peace? There could be an end to the Templars' insidious plotting, if not the Crusades themselves. At least the worst of the damage could be prevented.

Acre has been in Crusader hands for years, and every report from the city _Rafik_ suggests the Templars are using it as a de facto base, without regard for the wishes of the European kings. Corruption in Damascus has reached ridiculous levels, as any assassin stationed there for more than a week can tell. _Sayyid_ Hamid sends letters detailing the poverty and crime, the soldiers who look the other way. He's become a steady supplier for the Damascus bureau, and that protection is all that keeps away the greedy officials demanding bribes.

Religious feuds in Jerusalem spring up every other week. Templar agents slip past the walls to kindle the anger of fundamentalists, and neither side listens to the assassins trying to broker calm. Lately swords have been the only way to hold the fragile peace together: another contradiction in an Order filled with them.

Malik trusts in his Brotherhood but he watches his fellow assassins working against an enemy who only ever seems to advance and hates that he can't always answer his own question: what is really being done?

What gives Al Mualim the wisdom to always be right?

There _are_ answers. Malik knows the answers. He accepts them, even. But still there is something wrong…

He considers turning to the Master. It would be reassuring to know Al Mualim has himself struggled with such power. But Al Mualim is not often found these days. For weeks after he presented the hidden blades he vanished, off to Jerusalem or Acre, no one was quite sure. And when he returned he locked himself in his private rooms. The assassins tasked with bringing him meals heard him murmur, but not in any language they could understand. Even visiting _Rafiks_ are finding it hard to gain audience.

No assassin could successfully spy on Al Mualim. The old man has his secrets—gathers more every day, or so it seems to Malik—and he guards them as a thief might guard his gold.

In the same way, Malik keeps his misgivings to himself. They are so vague. It isn't worth the effort of getting Altair to listen, not over uncertainties Malik is still having trouble putting to words. No evidence of anything wrong, not with the Master or the Order or the weapons at its command. No one ever said peace would come within his lifetime. No one ever said the Brotherhood had easy work.

There are answers.

And he has no evidence at all, really…just a nagging feeling that something somewhere has turned sour, that somehow the hidden blade is a symbol of darker things than assassinations of evil men. Just a restless shiver down his spine. Nothing more. What would he say to Al Mualim if he could find him? Altair would laugh in his face. "Worrying over _bad omens_ now?" he might say. "How childish. I'm no fortune teller, so why come to me with your bad dreams? Even your brother's outgrown them by now."

Malik trains with the hidden blade, readying himself for his next mission without complaint. That he should be made a Master Assassin soon is accepted fact. And he waits for Kadar to come back. The doubts are made easier when his little brother is around.

_-i-_

"Malik? Hey, Brother! So here's where you're hiding."

He's been nestled in a little alcove within the labyrinthine fortress for some time now, polishing his sword, grateful for the many places where other assassins don't often go. Still, Malik's glad to see Rauf appear in front of him all the same. It can be easy to lose oneself in Masyaf, especially in a place such as this, dusty corridors and benches carved into depressions in the stone walls. There aren't any windows here to give the sun's progression away.

Rauf trots up to him with his hands on his hips. His muscular frame fills out his instructor's uniform and his face is dark from long hours spent outside. He keeps his mask pulled up even inside the fortress, even while he speaks; it muffles his speech and no one's sure why he doesn't just take it off. Malik has heard rumors about the brothel women suggesting it makes him look 'mysterious'.

"_Salaam_, Brother," Rauf says. "Safety and peace."

"And with you."

"No secret missions for the Master Assassin today?"

Malik laughs. "I'm still just a journeyman, Rauf. Like you."

"But Master Al Mualim isn't personally following _my_ progress."

"Whose progress is he following? I haven't seen him in weeks."

"I guess he's the one on secret missions. And speaking of missions, guess who's finished his in fine assassin form?"

Quickly Malik sheaths his sword and gets to his feet. "Kadar? Is Kadar back?"

"Traipsed through the village gates an hour ago," nods Rauf.

"An hour? I thought he'd come see me right away."

"He probably couldn't find you! Took me the whole hour to look." Rauf peers over Malik's shoulder, looking into the alcove. "Altair isn't here, is he?"

"No," says Malik, and he sounds casual enough. Hopefully. "I don't know where he is. Practicing his sword swings on some poor novice, probably."

"He's been even worse than usual."

"Mm," says Malik. "He hasn't broken anyone's arm in the last few months. Well, not assassin arms."

"No, I mean with how he's been acting. I don't think I've seen him grin so much since-…well, since ever."

"He's happy with his hidden blade. You know how his mind works, weaponry is his religion."

Rauf muses, "Nice religion, to make a man strut like that. Actually, I think he's finally started going to the brothel. I happened to go by his room the other night and he wasn't—"

"Well I'm going to go find Kadar. Do you know where he went?"

"To go put his weapons away, I think. He didn't say much when I saw him."

"Hm. Unusual for him." Malik creases his brow. "He must be tired."

"Must be," agrees Rauf. "The road from Damascus is very long."

They say their goodbyes. Then it's off across the fortress. Down steep staircases where forgotten candles nudged into crevices drip wax along the walls; through wide hallways through which assassins of every rank hurry. Past rooms locked to most, though not to Malik these days.

Past the little study that once belonged to _Dai_ Faraj. Malik ignores it. He has not entered that place in many years.

And finally, to one of the many rooms used to store weaponry and armor. The one Malik steps into, ducking his head through the low doorway, is lined with racks and trunks. Lit torches offer the only light, as there aren't any windows. This is a storage room for midlevel journeymen, and sure enough Kadar is kneeling by a trunk, wrestling with a stubborn lock, a pair of wrist braces at his feet. His dark cowl is down around his shoulders, his hair in windswept tangles. His uniform bears the stains of a long trip through scrubland.

"Away for months and this is the greeting you give me?" Malik folds his arms against his chest. "I have to find out from others that you're back?" He tilts his head, the white cowl lowered as usual, his white robes adorned with fine stitching and very clean.

(He looks not unlike a Master Assassin, with the hidden blade clamped to his wrist, completing the look. Maybe that's why Rauf and Abbas have already begun calling him one.)

Kadar has yet to turn around. Still fiddling with the lock, his broad shoulders tensing under grey cloth, he says, "You are very hard to find, Brother."

"Then you must be the opposite. I found you easily enough."

"Ah," says Kadar, "but you had help."

"Did I?"

"Of course you did. Rauf is the easiest one to find of all." Now Kadar gets to his feet and turns around. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, his chin gone blue-black with stubble—but his grin when he gives it is pure. No, Malik sees with real relief, he has not changed. The Kadar who left months ago has been returned unharmed.

"Safety and peace," Kadar says, but in the same instant he throws off the formal words and rushes for his brother. Strong arms wrap around Malik's waist. They stand there for several moments, and the embrace is warm and comforting. Malik holds his brother about the shoulders and is utterly at peace.

"How are you?" he asks. "Besides far too tall? It's disgraceful, I think you're still growing. Such disrespect to be taller than your older brother!"

"Sorry, _Akhi,_" sings Kadar, pulling out of Malik's grasp. "But there's no law that says Master Assassins have to be tall."

"You're so clever." Malik ruffles his hair and smirks when Kadar scrunches his face in classic younger-sibling-annoyance. "Did they teach you how to do anything _else_ in Damascus then, besides being too witty for your own good?"

"Oh, I did a lot there. I'm sorry it took me so long, the mission was trickier then it looked at first."

"As long as you were successful."

"I-…" Unexpectedly Kadar goes quiet and his eyes drop to the floor. Malik notes how pale his face is behind the collected grime of travel.

"Kadar? You did kill your target, didn't you?"

"Yes." He says it softly. "And a couple others besides."

"Then you should be proud. We should be celebrating your first kill."

"Celebrating," echoes Kadar, his voice thin. But before Malik can remark on it the younger boy begs, "Oh, let's not talk about that now. Tell me what you've been doing. I read all your letters, is it true you and Altair got hidden blades? It's so exciting, Malik, you'll end up in control of the whole Order at this rate. That's it there, right, on your arm? Let me see how it works!"

"Yes, yes," says Malik, still wondering. He removes the holster and holds it out for Kadar's awe. "It isn't the real thing yet. It wouldn't hold up in battle."

"But look at the way it's designed. You'd have to be as clever as Al Mualim to…oh!" Kadar stares at the blade when it pops out. "So you twist it like that when you want to land the strike?"

"See the wires underneath here? The mechanism is very sensitive. A flick of the wrist is all it needs."

"Amazing." Kadar's voice has gone thin again. "You'll be able to kill so easily with the real thing. So brave…"

Malik takes the blade and straps it back around his wrist, staring hard at his brother all the while. "What is it?" he demands, as Kadar scuffs his boots against the ground. "You aren't acting right."

"It's nothing, it's nothing. It's—oh, isn't it close to dinner?" Kadar moves towards the door in an awkward bobbing, as if he still hasn't adapted to his grown limbs, his thickset frame. "I need to wash up before the meal," he says. "I'll come find you later. I want to see you use that hidden blade!"

The joviality is forced and sickly. Malik watches him go with a frown.

**_-i-_**

"I know something was wrong," Malik says. "He's never that quiet. And you should have seen the—_uhn!—_the look in his eyes." Altair's answer is an indistinct grumble. Malik continues on: "First kills are always difficult, but he wouldn't talk to me about it. That's, _nnh,_ what worries me. Kadar without his chatter is…is…ah, _damn_ it, Altair! I'm trying to _talk_."

"I don't know why," says Altair, the fingers of his right hand splayed wide across Malik's chest. He's got his left hand between Malik's legs, and when the younger man opens his mouth for an angry retort he presses his palm down. Hard. It's all Malik can do not to choke on his own disgruntled words.

"You, you idiot-! I'm concerned about my brother and you're acting like a dog in heat. Maybe you could train with him tomorrow."

"Why would I want to? What would I gain out of practicing with someone so weak?"

"He's not weak."

"Even if he were the strongest of his age and rank, it wouldn't matter. You're the only one who…"

"Spare me your dumb theories, novice. It wouldn't be for your sake anyway. Kadar idolizes you, so maybe the fight would brighten his spirits some. You-…_ahh_, you know how to, _nh_, to distract people, at least."

"Malik—"

"Oh, goddamn it, don't stop moving your hand."

"Worry about Kadar later," Altair says, amused. "When you're not as busy."

It's true that Malik's picked easier moments for conversation. Sprawled on his bed as he is, his robes open down the front and pulled to dangle limp from his shoulders, his arms braced against the mattress as Altair wraps long fingers around his cock: it's hard enough to keep the thoughts coherent in his head, much less his mouth. There's something sordid about this affair, about his leggings down around his ankles when he hasn't even had a chance to take off his boots yet, about Altair with bite marks down his chest but still clinging to the cowl. There's something sordid about the whole messy business of fight-fucking Altair.

But this is what Malik's chosen and it's too late for regrets now. And in fact…

"Fine," he says, "if you don't want to listen, you'd better keep me interested in other ways." Altair gives his eagerness away with how quickly he grabs at Malik's hips to turn him over, but just as quickly Malik knees him in the side to make him back away. "Ah ah," he says, smirking at the other man's grunt of protest. "Not like that. Not yet."

Altair glowers. "What, do you want me to beg?"

"Just as I said. Keep me interested first. Then maybe I'll give you what you want." Malik shifts his weight, kicking off his leggings so he can widen his legs. The expression on Altair's face is so hilarious it almost ruins the mood.

But not quite.

"Selfish donkey," Malik sighs, with a roll of the eyes. Altair so hates to play the woman's part. "Look, I'll _warn_ you. Or if you'd rather, I can find my own release and you can…oh, I don't know, there must be a real donkey for you to bother around here somewhere."

"Shut up," Altair says, and puts his head between Malik's legs.

Malik reaches to tug his cowl, until they both find their respective rhythms, and then he leans back and loses himself. He can hear himself groaning but he can't make himself stop, or want to stop. His skin is hypersensitive to touch, or maybe that's just Altair's debauched skill. Either way it is a madness, unholy and unrestrained.

When Altair pulls himself away Malik wants to protest—he is so _close_!—but the Son of None keeps him too distracted. The assassin's face is flushed, and a strand of saliva glistens from his lower lip when he grins. Needy as he is, Malik can't make himself muster enough indignation to complain. He watches, vulnerable in his lust, as Altair pulls himself onto the bed, resting on his knees between Malik's outstretched legs.

Altair arches his back a bit, reaches down to stroke his own prick a few times, slowly. A show, a performance. All it ever really is, with him.

Then, moving with cat's grace and cobra's speed, he strikes. He's on top of Malik, who stiffens his body out of instinct before letting himself relax enough to fall back against the bed. He grabs Malik's chin and crushes their lips together (Malik digs his fingernails into his shoulders as payback), his tongue pushing deep into Malik's mouth.

The kiss is broken only for want of air. "Warn me," Altair reminds in a murmur against Malik's throat. Then he shoves two fingers in his mouth, pushing his lips open wider for another bruising kiss.

"_Mgbl_," replies Malik, intelligently. Altair's free hand wraps around his cock, he pulls his legs up and shifts so that the man can better reach, there is that whiteness burying his vision again as Altair drags him to the brink with those slender fingers, his heart racing in his chest, beating in accidental rhythm with the footsteps down the hall as he feels himself ready to—

_Footsteps_?

Malik jerks with sudden alarm, but the shock now coursing through his system is apparently all that he needed. "_Get off_," he hisses at Altair, even as his body succeeds in doing just that. Altair grimaces at the fluids soaking his hand but before he can say anything Malik pushes him right off the bed.

"_Agh_-! Fucker," protests the older man, from his new position tangled in a web of discarded clothing. "_Ya kanith_, what was that for?"

"Get dressed! Someone's coming."

"Yes, _you_, all over me." Altair flicks some of the proof at him, petulant. "Nice warning. Meanwhile I'm…"

"Somebody is _walking down the hall_, you stupid, immature, wretched waste of life!" Malik is already pulling his robes back over his chest, not bothering with the belts or buckles, one ear open for the sound of encroaching footsteps as he searches frantically for his lost leggings.

"So what? The door's closed. There are a lot of people in this fortress. If you worry every time someone passes by I'll still be hard a year from now."

Malik wishes for patience. His glare must be frightening because Altair does start digging for his clothes. "Listen, novice," he growls, "there are only two other rooms down this hall and they're both unused storage spaces. The door isn't locked, and if it were that wouldn't stop anybody, and besides, I know those footsteps so put your clothes on you _ebn el metnakah!"_

Fortunately assassins are fast dressers. By the time Kadar nudges open the door the two are decent, though Malik's cowl is missing and he's pretty sure Altair's wearing the wrong belt. They're also both standing several inches away from each other and the bed, which is helpful.

"Ah, Malik. Sorry, I know it's late." Kadar hesitates in the doorway. "You're also here?" he asks Altair. "Am I interrupting…?"

"We were training," says Altair. "We just came back from sparring together." It explains their red faces and still-heavy breathing, anyway. Altair sounds cool and disinterested, but he keeps wiping his hand on his robes when he thinks no one's looking. Kadar doesn't notice.

"Oh. So late?"

"Is this the first time assassins have had to fight in the dark?"

"What is it, Kadar?" asks Malik. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, of course. Um. I was just wondering if we could talk."

"You know we can."

"It's just that it's so late. It can wait until tomorrow."

"Kadar. Get in here."

"You two are sickening," announces Altair, and stalks from the room without a glance back. Malik, knowing the real source of his resentment, tries not to laugh.

"Having trouble sleeping?" he asks his brother as they seat themselves on the floor (the bed is a touch too _disheveled_ for use at the moment, but Kadar is too lost in thought to realize).

"A bit. Just like always."

"You haven't had a really bad nightmare in years."

"But I was the only one who ever had them."

"I doubt that. There's nothing wrong with…"

"So this is your new room?" Kadar looks around. "It's nice."

"It serves its purpose."

"New room, new weapons. It's all so sudden."

"And a new rank on your end," Malik says gently. "Tell me about your mission in Damascus. How did it go?"

"It, well, it. It went well."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Very, very well." Kadar stares at the floor for a moment, and then his shoulders slump. "It went well but _I'm_ a fraud," he groans. "They should make me a cook and get it over with."

"What are you talking about? I thought you killed your target."

"I did! And his guards, and his two underlings, and when I was climbing onto the roof to sneak away I knocked a brick loose and it crashed through a merchant's stall. Maybe I killed him too."

"Sounds like you'd make a pretty dangerous cook. You did your duty. It's natural to feel some remorse for taking human life but that's our burden as assassins."

"But it was horrible." Kadar says in a low voice, "The target, he begged me. Pleaded with me to not kill him. He was huge, this bearded mountain, running a slave ring that was snatching people off the streets."

"It's hard to have much sympathy for slavers."

"But he was crying." Kadar looks up at Malik, worry pinching his honest face. "He was crying and I…I didn't listen, I knew he had to die, but I didn't want to kill him. Or anyone. There was a guard who saw me running, he caught up to me on the rooftops and I had to fight him too…"

"You won, I'm assuming."

"He slipped. I pushed him and he slipped. It, it was a high roof…" Kadar shakes his head. "I hated that even more. He wasn't evil, he was just doing his job. And I'm a terrible assassin."

"Terrible? You might not have enjoyed it but you did your job. You're not supposed to enjoy killing."

"But I'm also not supposed to turn into such a _woman_ about it! What real assassin gets nauseous and miserable over a Templar's corpse?"

"Kadar—"

"I could barely hold my sword straight. I'm such a novice. Getting all upset over a simple assassination. Maybe I should quit. I could go apprentice for _Sayyid_ Hamid. Or become a farmer. Or a…"

Malik takes his brother by the shoulder and pulls him close. "Look," he says, firm but kind. "You're an assassin. This is your life. And you're good at it, too. I've seen you fight, I've seen you wield a sword."

"Wait 'till you see me bawl over killing soldiers. That'll change your mind."

"Doubt it. You're not the first one to be bothered," Malik says.

"Bet I am."

"I'm telling you, you're not."

"Well, who else do you know got that upset over first kills? I know Rauf got a little dizzy and Abbas stalled so long his target almost got away but afterwards they were fine. They took a deep breath and said the ritual and that was that. Just like assassins are supposed to act."

"Well…"

"See? You can't think of anyone."

"Oh, I can think of someone. He'd hate me for telling you, though."

"Imaginary people don't count, Malik. Even if you're trying to make me feel better."

"The person I'm thinking of was a bit young for his first kill," Malik allows. "He really shouldn't have been there at all. But he was still trained as an assassin, and he took the burden on himself."

"And he was fine, right?" Kadar grumbles. "Great. So even low-rank novices are better at it then me. You aren't helping, Brother."  
"Let me finish. The person I'm talking about killed a Templar. Not a random guard or criminal but a full-fledged Templar, cross and all. A really…a really terrible person. And when he was done with the assassination he—""

"Said the ritual and went home. I get it already."

"Never said the ritual, actually. Neither one of us did that day. No 'rest in peace', no quick urging to die with a free mind. I was too exhausted to think of it. He was too busy puking behind some bushes."

"You-...? Wait." Kadar narrows his eyes. "Are you talking about _Altair_?"

"So if you think every assassin who is made miserable by death should be turned into cooks, we'd better start with him. Although I don't think he can cook. Be ready for a lot of bread and water."

"You're telling me Alta_ir_ threw up after his first kill? But wasn't that when you got captured by Templars and he went after you? Why would he feel bad about killing _them_?"

"I never asked." Malik says quietly, "I owed him too much."

He adds, "If you're a terrible assassin, then so is Altair Ibn La'Ahad. And if he's terrible then the rest of the Brotherhood might as well forget about the Creed and go herd sheep together."

"It was hard for Altair…" Abruptly Kadar gets to his feet. Malik looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "I should get to bed, I've gotta wake up early for training. Maybe I can get Altair to train with me. He'll kick me all over the ring but it'd be worth it if I could be as good as he is one day. I'm gonna be that good! Al Mualim will be giving me the hidden blade next."

"Feeling better?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, guess so. Never woulda guessed that Altair...I gotta talk to him about it."

"Please don't. He'll kill both of us."

"Probably together we could take him."

"Probably."

"He really threw up over a dead Templar? Are you sure you didn't hallucinate it? Don't forget how hurt you were."

"Altair is human, you know. More or less."

"Yeah, I know. Still, though…!"

**_-i-_**

Malik is pleased to find Kadar acting more like his usual self in the days that follow. He watches his younger brother joke over meals and run laps about the village, seeing only smiles and good-natured laughter where before there had been unease. Things fall back into their normal routine. Malik gets complacent.

And, nearly a month after Kadar's return to Al Masyaf, it almost all comes crashing down.

It starts when Kadar bumps into Malik as he's leaving the dining hall. The younger A-Sayf is coming so fast down the hallway that his momentum propels him on even after the collision. Malik has to grab him by his cowl to get him to stop.

"Where are you rushing off to?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. "You already ate. They won't serve you a second time."

"I think I left my dagger in there," groans Kadar. "I was supposed to be in the training ring five minutes ago, the instructor's gonna make me jump off a cliff. _Twice_."

"Well, you shouldn't leave your weapons lying around."

"I was polishing it!"

"At dinner?"

"I was holding it with intent to polish at some later convenient point."

"You were showing off. Typical journeyman, trying to awe the novices."

Kadar grins. "Typical almost-Master Assassin, thinking he's above a little showing off." His grin goes a bit sheepish. "Actually, speaking of lost things, you haven't seen an extra throwing knife or three lying around, have you?"

"Do you know where any of your weapons are right now?"

'"Course. My dagger's in the dining hall. But I kinda forgot where I left the knives."

"A shame. They'll have you scrubbing floors to replace them."

"Ugh. Why don't assassins ever clean their boots?"

"Because they know you'll do such a fine job washing up after them."

"Are you _sure_ you haven't seen any extra knives? Maybe they got mixed up with your stuff when you changed rooms?"

"I'm sure, Kadar." Malik lets go of his cowl and gives him a little push. "Go get your dagger. The later you are the angrier your instructor will be."

"I kno-oo-w." And Kadar darts off. Malik shakes his head, but what's left of the day is too busy for much idle exasperation. He has to take his sword down to the blacksmith in the village, and his spare tunic to the tailor. After that he's promised Rauf a quick sparring session by the river. And Al Mualim wants him to deliver a message to the leader of one of the local villages: a mysterious message from a man who wasn't around to give the order, going through one of his guards instead. Nevertheless it's a task that Malik must get done. And he needs to be back in Masyaf by sundown, because he's training some novices in making nighttime leaps of faith, in being able to jump with confidence without being able to see the hay below.

Twice during the day Kadar runs over to ask if he's sure he doesn't have any extra knives in his belt. Twice Malik waves him off, sympathetic but too busy to help him look.

It's nearly ten by the time he's finished rushing around. The staircase that leads to his hallway is tough to climb on aching legs. He speeds up, though, when he sees a figure standing at the top, leaning against a small window carved into the stone wall. The window is rounded at the top, its glass cut into tiny shapes by the iron frame. As Malik reaches the top of the stairs the figure pushes one side of it open, letting in the night air. The breeze feels wonderful. It smells like farmland, like tilled earth and manure, but the river adds a crisp freshness.

Malik stops at the top to inhale. Altair lifts a hand in casual greeting. The moonlight through the window glints at his eyes.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Today was busy," Malik confirms. He notes the other man's boots, caked with dried mud. "Were you down by the river today? Tell me you're finally learning how to swim."

"Hmph. A well dried up, a mile down the road. The village elders came to ask that we help dig a new one. They didn't have the manpower themselves."

"I would have paid any sum to watch you dig a well, my friend."

Altair sniffs. "I guarded the diggers. Twice in three years Templar patrols have passed through that place. That's why they're so short on able-bodied men."

"Is Al Mualim aware?"

"I told him when I returned here. He's going to send some assassins to stay there, in case of another strike."

"Good." Malik pauses. "You told Al Mualim, or you told one of his guards to tell Al Mualim?"

Altar shrugs, the movement stiff. "One of his guards. What does it matter? The decision still came from him in the end."

"I'm just wondering where the old man has been lately. No one's seen him except maybe those private guards. I know he's keeping busy, but doing what?"

"It's none of our business…" But here Altair trails off. "We're going to be Master Assassins," he says. "The most trusted fighters in the Order. One day one of us might be leading it. So it is our business. Who better to tell than us?"

"We aren't Master Assassins yet. And there are others who are already at that rank. A few, anyway. Perhaps it's them the Master confides in."

"Perhaps." Altair looks unconvinced, and unsettled by it. He follows Malik as the younger man heads for his room.

"You come here so often, I'm beginning to suspect you've forgotten where your own place is," Malik says lightly. "It's just down the hall, Brother. Do you need a guide?"

"Says the one who never locks his door."

"What assassin would a locked door be able to keep out? Certainly not you."

"No. But the fumbling at the lock would alert you to Templar spies."

"So that's why you come. Concerned over my safety? And yet all my bruises these days come from you. Curious…"

Altair lingers in the open doorway. "You don't mind."

"…No," Malik admits after a long moment. "I don't. Allah only knows _why_ I don't. You aren't an easy man to like, you know. You don't ask for normal things." Altair is silent, looking at him in the dim light. His shoulders are drawn up, defensive. Malik looks back and wonders aloud, "Why _do_ you ask? I've always wanted to know. Hounding me for years…and babbling your nonsense when I want to know why. If it was strength alone you were attracted to, you'd have found some actual Master Assassin to rut with ages ago."

For a long while Altair stays quiet, not that Malik had been expecting much of an answer. Something scuffles behind the curtain tacked across the corner of his room; he assumes it for a rat and doesn't bother to check.

At last Altair says, "Of course you wouldn't understand. It's easier for you. It's always been easier."

Malik can't help his incredulous laugh, though he knows laughing at Altair is the surest way to have the Son of None sulking for weeks. "Easier? What in my life has been easier than in yours? You're the better fighter, and you've always lived here. As a child all your needs were met. Your parents…" Altair draws in his breath but Malik plunges on anyway: "What happened with your parents was a tragedy, I won't say otherwise, but at least you were young. At least you had somewhere to go. It must have been so much easier without family to hold you down."

Malik shakes his head. "I sound like you. But you've always been right about that. Having someone to worry about after what happened was…it was terrifying, it made things so much harder. That burden. That fear of making the wrong choices but not being the one to suffer the consequences. I love my brother, but I envy you. And-…"

"You're wrong," says Altair. Again the scuffling. Even the rats must be surprised.

"Am I? I figure you'd agree."

"When Kadar has his nightmares—"

"You make fun of him."

"When Kadar has his nightmares he comes here. He finds you. Where would he go if he didn't have you? Where do all the new novices go, if they're young and scared and orphaned?"

"They-…well, they." Malik frowns. "Nowhere. Assassins learn to deal with their own problems. It's why you're always accusing me of making Kadar's life too soft."

"And you do. You coddle him and doing that will bring you no good fortune. I'm sure of it. But, still, when he's worried he goes to you, and it's the same the other way around. You two protect each other. The rest of the Brotherhood doesn't have that."

"Yes, well. What does that have to do with your, your…"

"You can't even say it." Altair grins, thin and mean. "You'll let me fuck you but you can't say that it happens."

"Different issue entirely," Malik says dryly, over the rat's skittering about. "It's the why of it that's confusing me, not the what."

It's to Altair's credit that, when he says what he says next, he does so with squared shoulders and even voice. It might be any other conversation, it might be him correcting some recruit's bad stance, but instead it's him saying in that cool, diffident voice: "I also go to you. As-…as Kadar does. I'm not as ridiculous as your brother, I'm actually worth a damn as an assassin, which means I know how important shields are. How you have to protect yourself. That is what you are for me." He shifts on his feet. "Protection."

Malik finds he has nothing to say. What is that warmth, building in his chest and lower? They are friends—fine, best friends, allies, comrades, but that is all two men could ever be. They are friends and they...they are obsessed…

Anyway there's no time to muse on it, because Altair is before him in a heartbeat, grabbing and kissing. Malik tilts his head as Altair bites at his neck, walks backwards until the backs of his legs hit the bed. They pull themselves upon it, coiled together, half-caught in each other's clothes. Scratching, biting. Malik pulls Altair's prick out of his leggings, enjoying how the other man hisses through his teeth, and begins stroking it with both hands, going slow. Altair arches himself, grinds into Malik's touch, allowing himself a forceful groan and—

And that is the exact moment that Kadar A-Sayf trips over a trunk and falls out from behind the curtain, landing hard on his stomach and elbows.

Malik stares. Altair gives a groan (half disbelief, half frustrated arousal) and flops back onto the bed. Kadar is bright-red and stammers nonsense as he tries to get to his feet, trips over himself and falls a second time. Malik is still staring.

Malik is still holding Altair's prick in his hands and _oh shit oh shit oh shit!_

_ "_What are you doing in here, _again_?" snarls Altair, sounding very scary.

"I—I, sorry, I," babbles Kadar, looking everywhere but at the bed as he clambers to his feet on shaking legs. "I, I know it's late but I was looking for my knives and I know you said you didn't have them but I thought maybe they got mixed up in your stuff and you just didn't realize so I went to look 'cause I knew you were busy and you never latch your door shut anyway and I—and then you came back, and, and, I was just gonna wait until you left I swear, only you didn't leave, you, um." Kadar goes even redder and stares very intently at his feet. "Um."

Malik's brain finally starts working again. He throws himself as far away from Altair and the bed as he can, ignoring the Son of None's tactless moan. "Kadar," he cries, about ready to start babbling himself, and then he realizes that along the way Altair has pulled his own robes askew. He tries frantically to make himself decent and while he's wrestling with a knotted sash Kadar is making his escape.

"S-Sorry, Malik," he yelps, "I'll go, I'm going, sorry!" And he hurls himself from the room.

"Wait! Shit, _Kadar_-…" By the time Malik reaches the door the hallway is empty. He runs to the far end in hopes of seeing Kadar fleeing down the stairs, but his younger brother is an assassin: he won't be found unless he wants to be found, and right now he clearly wants anything but.

Malik walks back to his room. His mind is a numb whirl. He can hardly register the sight of Altair sitting on his bed, still half-naked, frowning under his cowl.

"This is bad," Malik tells him, faintly. "Kadar just saw us…oh. Oh, this is bad."

"You think he'll tell someone?" Altair's frown deepens.

"What? Oh, now you care about societal custom? I thought the almighty assassin was beyond any of that."

"I don't see the problem with it, but that doesn't mean I want to swing on a rope for it either. Do you think Kadar will tell someone?"

"_No_, I don't think…what would he tell them? He probably wouldn't know how to describe…oh, goddamn it, this is bad. My brother, Altair. My little brother just saw me doing that, with…with _you_."

"I'm not hideous," Altair murmurs.

Malik explodes, "This isn't about you, idiot! What will I say to him? How can I look him in the face? He'll think I'm diseased, he won't trust me at all."

"He shouldn't have been in here. That's what comes of you treating him like you do. He just wanders around, no sense of boundaries."

"You're really one to talk about boundaries. Every other night you're here, and now Kadar knows. There's no way to explain this to him."

"Mmh. I agree. Malik…"

"Ever since we were kids I've been the one telling him not to do anything stupid. I must look like such a hypocrite to him."

"Either way, Malik…"

"I don't even know where he went. He could be anywhere in the village. My own brother is hiding from me."

"Malik."

"What?"

"Worrying about it won't change what's just happened. Kadar isn't here now." Altair gestures towards himself. He's yet to make himself decent in any way. "You might as well…"

Malik gapes at him for a second. He runs a hand over his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He looks back at an expectant Altair.

He decides patience is overvalued and bellows: "_Suck it yourself_."

Then he's off, trying to figure out which of the thousand hiding places in Masyaf Kadar might choose.

_-i-_

He goes to the edges of the village walls, checks every sparring ring in every crevice of the fortress, even makes his way down the narrow cliff-steps to the river's banks. By the time dawn breaks Malik is weary from running all over Masyaf, and still panicking because he can't find his brother. He isn't used to panic. He hasn't felt it in so long.

Finally, trudging down a hallway he's sure he's already crossed twice over, he notices a door he's never opened before. He's not even sure where it goes. The fortress is like that. It could be a storage room or a vast chamber or a hallway to nothing but a stone wall. It would be like Kadar to wander inside with no purpose but to see where he could go. Maybe he's been here before.

Malik pushes the door open a crack and sticks his head through. A cool breeze greets him, ruffling his hair, making his eyes water. There are stone steps, five of them, and walls to either side, but no ceiling. Malik takes the stairs two at a time and finds himself outside, on a flat, square section of roof. The fortress stretches higher on three sides; the fourth opens up to the main courtyard.

He's ended up on top of one of the side wings. The grand window that frames Al Mualim's study is visible if he moves all the way to the left. So is the main ring, crowded with students even at this early hour. Their voices carry on the wind.

Kadar is sitting on the edge, one leg dangling, the other drawn up to his chest. Malik hesitates. His relief at finding his brother is matched by fresh nerves, because he still doesn't know what to say. How to explain.

Not being able to talk to Kadar is horrible. How had Altair put it? _You two protect each other._ Malik realizes now that he needs that security, more than he needs anything else.

"Ah," he says. "Kadar."

Kadar's shoulders give a little jerk and he looks over his shoulder. Malik can't read the expression on his face. "Hello."

"I, ah, I spent the whole night looking for you. Did you not get any sleep?"

"It's fine. I'm not so tired."

"If you say so."

"Yeah."

The conversation is even more awkward than he'd feared it would be. Right now Malik wants to throw himself off the ledge and be done with it. "Kadar," he tries again, desperate, grasping for any strand of normalcy. "We should talk—"

"I'm always saying that, but you never want to," interrupts Kadar. "You're always telling me not to worry. Well, now I'm worried. And I don't really want to talk about anything because I have to be in the training ring in two hours and I should really be focusing on that. So. Sorry."

Malik sinks to his knees at his brother's side. He is dressed as an assassin but he feels a fool wearing the wrong clothes. The sword on his hip is so useless now.

"Please," he says, the word unfamiliar on his lips. "All I'm asking is that we talk. Like we did the other night." Kadar glances at him and his lips twitch. There has never been anything mean or vengeful in the younger brother, and Malik can see him struggle to keep his scowl fresh. Latching onto that weak hope he says, "You can yell at me if you wish. If you're furious at me, that's…"

Kadar sighs. "I'm not furious," he says. "Just really confused."

"Me too, if you'll believe it. Can we talk?"

"What if I say no?" asks Kadar, but he's starting to smile. "Let you see how it feels."

Malik groans and sits down fully, letting both legs dangle so he can drop his head into his hands. "How about we tie me up in the training ring and you can whack at me with a sword for a while? I think that'd be easier to take."

"Yeah. Probably."

Silence again. In the growing light the brothers watch the courtyard below brighten. Rauf's distant figure can be seen corralling a reticent novice into the ring. "He's certainly grown into that job," Malik comments. "I think I'd be scared of him if I were his pupil."

"Me too. Malik, _why_?" Kadar swivels to stare at him, his honest eyes gone wide with hesitant disapproval. "I, I don't understand. You were…you and Altair were…like how you would at a brothel. Like you were a woman or something."

Malik winces. "I know."

"I don't…if you wanted to have sex couldn't you just go to the brothel? There are real women there. You're a man. Men don't do that with other men. All the holy books say so, and all the kings. They could _hang_ you."

"I don't know how to explain it, Kadar, I'm sorry. It's just this…this thing. It isn't something I've ever done with another man, either."

"Don't you like the brothel? I know Altair doesn't."

"I do! I, ah, I've had nice times there. It's more than the sex, it's—dammit, Kadar, it isn't an easy thing to explain."

Kadar bursts out, "But you don't even _like_ him!"

His voice echoes, caught between the walls. Malik winces again, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth. How easy it was to rationalize it away to himself—or to not rationalize, to ignore it, to pretend it was normal and fine and no cause for alarm.

"I mean, I know you're best friends," Kadar continues, quieter. "But you're always fighting. You're always saying how irritated he makes you."

Malik stares down at his hands. "It probably isn't healthy," he murmurs. "Something about him…he's so _frustrating_, Kadar. Al Mualim taught him how to be a soldier but not a human being."

"So you have sex with him? Urgh. I don't get it at all."

"Ever since we came here there's been something drawing us together. I don't know what, but I couldn't escape him if he went to heaven and I went to hell. We're connected."

"I'll say you are."

"Not like that! Where did you learn to talk like that?"

"I'm not six."

"Sorry. I guess I still need to be reminded now and then. But I'm serious when I say that I don't know what, exactly, it is about Altair. I just know he's important. To my future as well as his. I guess we've spent so much time together that when we, er, when it happened the first time it didn't feel as strange as it should have been. It felt natural, like we were never supposed to be distant at all. Like I was reattaching a missing limb."

"Poetic," Kadar observes.

"Bad poetry, maybe," Malik says, rolling his eyes.

"So that…last night, that wasn't the first time? It didn't look like it was."

"It wasn't," Malik admits. "It's been happening the last few months. The sense of it is older than that, I just got tired of holding him off." A forced chuckle: "You know Altair. Always so determined to get what he wants."

"I know Altair," says Kadar, sounding sad. "I guess I just don't know you."

"Don't say that. I'm your brother. Of course you…"

"Yes, you're my brother, and you've been sleeping with another man—another assassin—you've been _sleeping_ with _Altair Ibn La'Ahad_ and you didn't tell me. I hadda find out like a spy."

"How could I bring that up? I can't even explain it now, and you already know."

"I don't know what I know. Do you-…do you _love_ Altair? Like a man and his wife or something?"

"Not like that. Love is…" Malik shakes his head. "It isn't the right word. I don't know what it means. I'm caught up with Altair. It isn't as though he's a husband bedding his wife or anything. There's no romance. He's more aggressive in bed then anywhere else."

"Didn't need to know that," Kadar announces. "Really, really didn't need to know."

"But I thought you wanted me to tell you everything."

"Maybe not _everything_. For Allah's sake, Malik, you're really gross." At last, a healthy giggle! Malik, encouraged, smiles back.

"I'm sorry you found out the way you did, Kadar. Really. If it had gone on much longer maybe I would have found a way to tell you."

"Maybe."

Malik looks at him, helpless. "You're my little brother," he says. "How could I risk making you mad?"

"Oh, c'mon. You're a much better fighter."

"That's not what I meant. If you were disappointed with me, or angry, it'd be worse than anything the Templars could do."

Kadar flushes. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm honest." Malik puts a hand on his shoulder, so that they're facing each other eye-to-eye. "Altair is strange and fascinating and somehow we've ended up coupling in bed. I'm not going to say I don't enjoy it. But he's him and you're you and you are the one I would never want to upset. I can take his tantrums. I couldn't take you pulling away."

Kadar looks doubtful again. "He's always calling me a burden," he says. "Making it sound like I get in the way."

"He's wrong. You aren't and you don't."

"But you said as much in your room! You told him it was hard when we were kids because you had to worry about me. You said he was lucky to be alone." Kadar twists his hands in his lap, voice strangled with guilt. "So I _am_ a burden. If all you were doing was sleeping with Altair…I don't understand it but I know men have been together before. Nasr told me he saw a couple being hung for it in Acre once. But you were with Altair and you said I made things harder. Like you were happier to be with him."

Malik doesn't know what to say. His breathing has gone so shallow his head is beginning to hurt. "Kadar," he says, and has to stop. How sad his brother looks! How small, even though he's taller than Malik and stockier too. "Listen. I'm going to be honest with you and I want you to listen. I should have told you all this years ago, I just…I'm sorry. I spent too much time with Altair, and mostly I talk to him with my fists."

"Am I a burden, though?"

"No."

"Not even back then?"

"Back then?" Malik shakes his head. "I would have died in that desert without you."

"But the whole reason you were so sick is 'cause you kept giving me all your food. You could've eaten more if it wasn't for me."

"If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have bothered. I would have stayed in that cave and starved to death, probably. What would have been the point of living alone? The only reason I tried so hard for both of us is because it was _both_ of us. I knew I had that purpose, that reason. Even after we joined the Order."

"I dunno," says Kadar. "You're strong. I think you would have survived alone. You would've fought off all the wolves and you'd have made it, in the end."

Malik says, "Surviving isn't living. What a miserable existence it would have been."

"You said Altair was lucky, though."

"In his own weird way. He's always been here, he's always had the Order to fall back on. You and me…it was frightening, Kadar, being the one in charge. I didn't know what I was doing! I wanted to save us so badly but I didn't know how. And I made so many mistakes."

"It's ok. You did a pretty good job, I think." Kadar smiles at him. Malik is tired of his limp words and can only smile back.

The training ring is empty now, Rauf nowhere to be seen. The world around them is quiet: only wind, and the comfort of his brother's steady breathing.

"You and Altair, huh," muses Kadar after a while. "Well, I still don't get it. He isn't pretty at all."

Malik laughs. "No, he really isn't."

"He threw up after his first kill and everything. You can't have found that attractive."

"Definitely not. He sounded like a sick goat."

"A goat! Malik, really, he really sounded like that?"

"Altair might be a strong fighter, but when he vomits he sounds as disgusting as the rest of us. Speaking of things I'd rather not talk about, Altair's being sick to his stomach is on the list."

"I just…are you still going to…? Because," Kadar says in a rush, "because people will really wanna kill you for it and I don't want you to die. Not for him, not for me, not for anyone. You're Malik. You gotta be the older brother and you can't do that if you're being strung up for perversion."

"We're being careful. Maybe not as careful as we should be, but Altair is convinced he's invincible. I've let him get away with a lot."

"Even the Brotherhood might want to punish you for it. Men and women are…" Kadar waves a hand. "That's always how it's been. I dunno why, but I guess other people do. And they'll be so angry. I don't think even the three of us could fight off a whole country."

"No one will find out. You're the only one who knows, so, ah…unless you tell someone it shouldn't be a problem."

"Of course _I'm_ not gonna say anything," scoffs Kadar, and that's it: Malik knows that somehow everything will be ok.

Still he asks, "Does it bother you so much? Never mind countries and kings. If you don't like what Altair and I are doing, it's over. I swear to you. I'll throw him off a cliff if I have to, but he won't come near my bed. Just say the word."

Kadar looks uncertain again. "Just like that?" he asks.

"Just like that," Malik promises. "I won't be upset."

"I…" Slowly, eyes thoughtful, Kadar shakes his head. "No," he says. "It doesn't bother me so much. I don't understand it, you aren't a woman and Altair is kinda a jerk, but if you're happy…" He nods. "I trust you. I've always trusted you and you've never been wrong. As long as you're careful and as long as you're getting what you want. I don't get why you want it, but that's ok. As long as you don't think I'm a burden."

"Oh," says Malik, when he can trust himself to speak. "If you're sure."

"Pretty sure," says Kadar, and leans against him. For a moment Malik is ten again, holding his six-year-old brother in his lap as they wait out the desert night or a sandstorm or hunger's nagging grasp.

And then he becomes aware of someone standing in the shadows behind them, breathing in steady rhythm.

'"Just say the word,'" echoes Altair. "Because you couldn't stand to see him upset."

Malik stiffens but doesn't pull away from his brother, or turn to look over his shoulder. "Yes. As it's always been."

Altair moves forward to stand beside them on the edge of the roof, hands folded across his chest. He's bothered to get dressed but for once his cowl isn't raised, so Malik can see how distant his eyes are as he gazes out over Masyaf. The wind pulls at his brown hair. "It doesn't matter," he says, his voice the mere wisp of a sigh. "I don't care. You won't have to choose, anyway." Altair is tall and muscular and armed, but all Malik can see is the Son of None, looking lost.

Then Altair shifts over to stand near Kadar, whose head is bowed against the slight wind. "You've got to always be aware of your surroundings," Altair says.

Malik feels a pang of unease before Altair steps closer to the roof and crouches as if he'd just climbed up from the ground. He recognizes the beginning of a speech like their teachers used to give and braces himself for another condescending lecture on the failures of family. But what he, or rather Kadar, gets instead is: "If you're this close to the edge you have to be ready to climb. Stand up. Bend your knees, novice."

Reluctantly Kadar does so, looking to his older brother in confusion.

"Good." Then, of all things, _Altair _looks at Malik as if to ask permission. Slightly stunned, Malik nods agreement.

Altair pushes Kadar's shoulder. The boy hackles before bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and raising his hands in fists. Altair fakes a few punches, which Kadar blocks slowly at first, and then more quickly. Kadar angles away from the drop to give himself the advantage of space, and Malik smiles with pride. He thinks he saw a sliver of the same expression on Altair's face.

(How strange: he would never have imagined his brother and Altair smiling together. But Kadar's delight at the attention from his idol is obvious from his knitted eyebrows and concentrated glare.)

Altair gives more suggestions and instructions, curt but effective. "Keep your hands up, keep your eyes up, use your surroundings-" and then halfway through the word Kadar dodges behind Malik as if he were a column and Altair whips around to get at the boy from the opposite direction. Malik moves away, refusing to be a column, and catches Altair's eye for just a moment.

Again the smile.

Altair strikes at Kadar's face twice, his elbow following his fist in quick succession, and then Kadar lifts his forearm and catches both with a smacking sound. He punches at Altair's gut so that the older assassin jumps back, arms spread as if he were falling a great distance instead of leaping backward a few feet.

"There you go, novice. You're learning for once."

"Careful," Malik calls, sitting with his back to the wall, to better watch the fight. "I'm not rescuing whoever falls over the edge."

"No one is going to fall. Assassins know how to keep their balance."

Kadar jeers, "Unless I shove you off," and runs forward with his hands balled into fists. He keeps beaming even after Altair dodges his attack. Malik is relieved to see no hesitation there, his brother acting no different around Altair despite last night's awkward events. His brother and his—whatever Altair is supposed to be—are acting almost friendly. It could be normal, sitting up here at daybreak, watching them work.

Malik tilts his head to take in the surrounding view and spots something strange. He can just barely make out the main hall's massive window. Isn't that Al Mualim standing behind it, gazing out with features pressed into a scowl? Isn't it the Master standing there, hands folded into wide sleeves? Doesn't he seem to be looking right at the three assassins on the roof, though they'd thought themselves hidden? It's an odd angle and yet Malik's sure of it: Al Mualim is watching them from across the courtyard, without any guards at his side.

Which assassin is he looking at, really? Is it Kadar or Altair he follows with that stone-cast gaze?

"Come on, don't hesitate. What Templar will give you a chance to catch your breath? You give all your weaknesses away. Keep your emotions in check, don't announce your misery to the whole world."

"Oh, so then I should wait to puke?" Kadar hollers with evident glee, "If you pretend to be a goat again the Templars probably won't realize you're there."

"What are you talking about?" Altair whirls when he hears Malik struggling to muffle his own laughter. "What is so funny? I don't get the joke." Now both brothers are laughing. "What? Is there something funny about goats? _Malik_."

Only after the chortling is over and Altair has Kadar in a revenge-driven arm-bar does Malik glance back over at the main hall's window. It's empty. Al Mualim isn't there. Maybe he never was. Maybe it was all a trick of the light.

Malik shrugs and turns away.

* * *

AN: You'd think they would have learned the first time. Poor Kadar (?). There will be one more graphic scene but it won't be nearly as light-hearted. In fact, don't get used to this chapter's happy ending.

I realized that I haven't been defining the Arabic bits sprinkled throughout. I figured the non-curses were self-explanatory. But most are curse words, naturally, and it's harder to give context for those. According to the internet, _shem et duat _is 'go to hell', _el khara dah_ is 'what is this shit?' _bouse tizi_ is 'kiss my ass', _ya hmar _is 'you jackass', _kelbeh_ is 'bitch', _ya kanith _is 'you fucker', _ebn el metnakah _is 'son of a motherfucker'…etc!

I don't think Malik's right, by the way, with his opinion on who's had the easier life, or whose loss was easier to bear. But no one ever said Altair always had to be the accidentally-insensitive jerk in their relationship.


	19. Part Two: Chapter Three

AN: Somehow this chapter went missing. Let's hope the author's notes weren't important! Chapter title is from the Quran.

* * *

**_The Sky Splits Asunder_**

The man in white attacks.

There are three of them, a fat man in heavy robes and his guards. The guards are nothing worthy of the name, local thugs paid to play pretend, and they don't last. Don't even see him coming. The room is wide and low-ceilinged and crammed with heavy furniture, gaudy pieces crushing expensive carpets. All the overwrought decorum limits movement. This is fine for the man in white, who has been trained well. The guards, on the other hand, are unprepared.

The first takes three throwing knives to the back of the head before he can even turn around. The second, startled, bumps against a low table. Before he can steady himself the assassin is before him, and before he can draw his own weapon the assassin spears him through the gut with a short blade.

The body sags against the table. The assassin wipes clean and sheathes his weapon. His hand reaches then for the hilt of his broadsword, and he feels the minute shift of air being displaced as he slides it free. Assassins notice such small details. It's in their blood, and all the blood they spill.

The fat man, the target, is cowering at the back of the room, bellowing for guards who won't appear. None of them saw their killer. The stealth of the Order was beyond their understanding.

The assassin advances on the fat man. Just as secrecy is required for most missions, so to is open conflict sometimes needed. The assassin is comfortable with both. Blind men must be given the chance to see before the end.

"Who are you?" croaks the target. He is very much a distortion of a wise man, wearing long beard and prayer cap yet weighed down by rings and jewels. Assassins have no patience with pasquinades: be as your creed commands you or else be nothing at all. A strange sentiment, perhaps, for an Order draped in shadow, but that is not an issue now.

"Who _are_ you? Where are my guards?"

The assassin says, "Your guards are dead."

"What? Who…you, you murderer. Who hired you? What is it you _want_?"

"Be careful with your accusations, Isam Ibn Ismat A-Tayyib." The man starts at the sound of his name. The assassin continues, "We could mention your own crimes."

"Crimes? I've done nothing."

"You sell shoddy weaponry at high prices, to the Saracens and Crusaders both."

"Is that why you're here? Which side sent you?" The man wrinkles his nose. "I sell what I want to whoever wants to buy it. Is it my fault they pay too much? Is it my concern what they do with it after? Crusader or Saracen, their gold is still good. Find me one merchant who isn't doing the same thing. After me, will you kill the baker down the road who overcharges for burnt loaves?"

But the assassin is unruffled. "Still your tongue," he says, "for I am not finished. The city guard has been coming to you also, and the local village elders. They come from as far as cursed Acre for weapons, out of desperation. Because they heard you sell to the peasantry for cheap."

"Where else could they afford their own weapons? They'd have to fight off the Crusaders with pitchforks and gutting knives if it weren't for me. I could be making my weight in gold if I sold those weapons to the armies instead. I do the villages a service, and you'd punish me for it?"

"Did you think your scheming with the Crusader knights would go unnoticed?" The assassin's voice runs steel-sharp with distaste. "You sell broken weapons to those too desperate to know better. The village elders spend what little money they have on what they think is their salvation. But the garbage you sell them wouldn't survive a hard word." He reaches for a holster off the back of his belt, and pulls out the remnants of a sword, broken at the middle, cracks running from the jagged edge to the rusted hilt. "Do you deny that this is yours? Shattered at the first swing, along with the man who swung it."

The merchant grows paler. "It's. It's better than nothing. They couldn't afford _any_thing, I give them _some_thing, please…"

"These are farmers and goat-herds you're swindling. Not soldiers. And yet you aren't satisfied by your own corruption. You bring the Crusaders into it as well."

"No, that isn't—now, listen, I sell them goods, I don't see why I shouldn't. I didn't start the war and I won't end it by holding back. But that's the extent of it and every merchant in Damascus is doing the same thing!"

"Liar," says the assassin. It's almost a song. "Your greed goes further down. You give information to the foreigners."

"Who told you that? Are you a Saracen? Ask them, hah, ask them why the war's dragged on so long. Ask your holy fighters why they haven't won yet if Allah's on their side. Ask them—"

"I am not a Saracen," says the assassin, and drops the broken blade. "You tell your Crusader masters every time a villager buys a shield. You tell them which village is arming and you tell them where that village is. You lead the army to them, knowing they won't be able to fight with what you've sold them. Corruption twice over. How much gold does your treachery earn you?"

"That's a lie, I'm telling you, it's a lie…"

"Enough." The assassin points his sword at the target, who fumbles backwards, bumping into the wall. "I would have killed you before you knew I existed, Isam Ibn Ismat A-Tayyib. But my Master wanted you to have the chance to face your crimes. Death alone would be too easy for you."

The man moans. His eyes are wide and lolling in the fleshy folds of his face. "No, no, I'm not a criminal. A victim! Please," and he pushes his flabby hands together in pleading, "please, they made me. The Crusaders. They came and said if I didn't tell them where the villages were—if I didn't say—" The assassin does not lower his blade. "I've only done it a few times. For a few months! Please, whoever you are, I'm the one who needs your help. They'll kill me if I stop. You must protect me!"

The assassin considers the fat man's words.

Then he is moving fast, flying along the floor and there is no defense possible, not here and not against him, he angles his sword and grips it tight and the fat man has only just begun to blanch with fresh terror when the blade finds his skin. The assassin aims his blow for the heart: it is a quicker death.

"You've given the Crusaders information for three years," he says. "And it was you who first went to them."

The fat man gibbers and shudders and slides down along the wall, the sword still caught in his chest. A smear of blood marks his progress. Perhaps there is some knowledge in the light fading from his eyes.

"Be at peace," says the assassin. He waits until the man is dead before pulling a feather from a pouch and dusting it with blood. It would be too near revenge to do so while the target breathed. Revenge is too base for what the Creed commands.

(So the assassin has been taught. So he is not yet sure he believes.)

He turns to survey the room before him. Three dead men here, four more in the outer room, a fifth unconscious in the courtyard outside. Dirty work. But necessary. Malik A-Sayf is not his brother. It has been a long while since the act of assassination bothered him.

He lets the bodies lie as they are. Assassins deal the punishment; it is up to someone else to clean up the resulting mess.

_-i-_

Outside the sun is blinding. This is a rich district, so the streets are wider and cleaner than most, but even the wealthy can't change the weather. The benches are empty, the few stalls deserted. The palms nestled here and there at the side of the road are too spindly for much shade. Damascus is yellow-brown, and today the colors add to the heat, the buildings squatting under a heavy blue sky. The river is running sluggish and low.

Malik lets a small side road lead him to the side of an old mosque, and sure enough there are scholars gathered at its gates. His robes blend in with theirs nicely, and if any of them wonder at the sudden stranger in their midst, no one says anything. Doubtless at least a few of them have been helped by the Brotherhood over the years. They all know to keep quiet when a group of haggard-looking guards storms by.

The assassination has already been discovered, judging by the commotion. Not such a surprise in the rich districts, where half of the soldiers are paid off as little more than private guards for the whims of their wealthy masters. Malik keeps still, one ear on the babble of the scholars around him. It's the inclination of every novice to run as far and as fast from the scene of the assassination as possible, but he knows better.

How obvious it would be, after all: a man dressed as he is, with sword and sash bearing his allegiance, running away from a recent death. He'd lose his pursuers in the mire of the poor districts, but only if he made it that far without the guards or city walls hampering his progress. No, better to stay within the safety of a friendly crowd. Better to let all the fuss die down.

Even among his fellow assassins, Malik is a master of the city, of all the cities…he knows every route to the Damascus bureau from where he currently is, and could get there blindfolded and half-awake. No need for panic, then, with the path mapped out and the shouting of the guards already growing faint. No need for heedless rushing about. He will wait—

Then Altair comes barreling around the corner of the mosque, a grin visible from under his cowl as he runs.

Six guards chase him, shouting and waving swords. Fortunately none of them have throwing knives. Of course the scholars scatter in alarm as they charge past, and though Malik could scatter with them he stays still with a sigh. The guards notice him, because while they're corrupt they're mostly not stupid. Malik is dressed the same as their target, down to the same long cut of their robes that marks them as high-ranked assassins.

Altair, further down the road, glances back with a raised eyebrow. Malik rolls his eyes. The idiot probably led his chasers this way on purpose, knowing where Malik was assigned and knowing he'd be smart enough to keep _still_.

"There! Another one!" someone yells. Altair picks up speed, and grumbling under his breath Malik follows after.

The road, as at least one assassin is well aware, ends in a little garden at the foot of some rich _sheik's_ mansion. It's hard to say whether Altair is surprised by the sudden dead end; he throws himself at one of the mansion's bordering walls and climbs quickly, but that doesn't mean he's planned his footfalls as careful as Malik would like.

"Stop," a soldier yells from behind them. There aren't any archers around, which does make things easier. Malik finds a good boost off a stack of crates and pulls himself up the wall: not the same wall as Altair's but one bordering where the other man had gone. Four of the six guards don't climb after, settling for cursing and throwing rocks instead. A well-aimed stone glances off Malik's shoulder and he grimaces for a minute but doesn't fall.

He pulls himself up and over, landing on a narrow ledge bordered by knee-high walls. A guard's promenade, perhaps, not uncommon for the larger private homes. Even up here there is magnificent tilework in shades of orange and brown.

Mansions are difficult, though. Too many turrets and uneven ledges, often an archer or two prowling around. There's another building across the way, with a roof flat enough to hold a small covered garden. Malik moves towards the chance of cover.

But then his path is blocked. The two remaining soldiers, faster climbers than he'd given them credit for being, hurl themselves over the ledge and stand on either side of him, swords at the ready.

Malik muses on his options, stroking the slick hilt of a hidden blade tucked under his sleeve. The promenade is too narrow for fancy swordplay, as the soldiers must have known. It'll be difficult to defend himself when there's an enemy weapon on either side and not much room to turn around. He can still jump across to the other building, but he risks leaving himself open for a sword to the back.

"Surrender, _ya kalb_." But neither soldier advances. From the nervous way they hold their weapons they have heard the rumors. Malik considers this as well.

One of the soldiers says, "You can't fight both of us. Save your throat, give in!"

Malik says, "Novice, stop fooling around. No one is impressed with you."

"What? Who are you—"

Altair lands on the far end of the promenade on cat's quiet feet. The soldier nearest him twists around in shock, which is silly. Hadn't they seen him climbing a different wall?

So obvious, and so easy to plan. Altair tramples the distance between him and the nearest soldier, spearing the man through as one might swat a fly. He isn't grinning now…with the chase over, he just looks bored. Malik meanwhile spins around to hit the remaining guard in the forehead, with the palm of his hand, using the man's own momentum against him to shove him to the ground. The back of the soldier's head cracks against the stone and he goes limp, his sword clattering away.

Altair prods at his victim with the toe of his boot, until Malik glares at him and he mumbles a truncated 'be at peace'. The second man isn't dead, so instead Malik glances over the wall for the hay cart he knows is there, and then throws the man down and in. One hard landing later and the soldier is completely hidden, but the hay cushioned the fall enough that probably he'll live.

As with most fights, the ending is a little anticlimactic. Malik checks to make sure he still has the pouch with the bloodied feather.

"Well," says Altair. "_I_ am a little impressed with me."

"Oh, yes, Brother, good job. So dramatic. So _unnecessary_. _Mabrook,_ congratulations, you are still flashy and dumb." Malik peers over the wall again, to see if any of the other soldiers have come around that way. "It's too hot for your nonsense today. When will you learn to complete a mission without alerting the whole city?"

"I could have gotten away unseen if I'd wished," scoffs Altair. "But there were guards in front of my target's house who would have found his body sooner or later. Better to deal with them quickly."

"Better not to deal with them at all. Why give yourself extra work?"

"Why not save my Brothers from having to clean up what I left behind?"

"I did clean up what you left behind!"

But the mood turns an indiscernible shade darker. Altair straightens his shoulders and turns to look elsewhere and there is something so _wrong_ in how he hides his eyes. "Your aid is appreciated, Malik," he says, "but it wasn't needed. And you know it."

Malik frowns. It's too hot to be offended, and besides… "Yes," he admits after a stiff moment. "I know it."

He knows it, and it worries him, Altair's skill matched with Altair's thirst for violence. The man is not a _monster_, he still follows the Creed and spares the innocent, but it seems to Malik that he takes too much pleasure in the nastier aspects of his job.

It worries Malik because since the two assassins began lying together Altair has gotten only more intolerable.

"You are the dramatic one," he complains. "Admit it, you enjoyed the fight."

"It is always entertaining to fight beside you," says Malik. Because the Son of None is skillful, amazingly so, and there seems nothing that could ever slow him down. Nothing that Malik can imagine.

And it's unsettling.

"Well? You don't agree?"

"Mm," says Malik, who hasn't been paying attention. "What did you say?"

"I said, if we spend much more time here we'll run out of guards to fight. It's been months."

"Bored with Damascus?"

"We could be elsewhere."

"I think you enjoy traveling more than I. But it will be nice to return home again, I agree. It's been ages since I've seen Kadar…"

"He's probably been too busy to remember you," Altair says. He then has the audacity to look surprised when Malik glares. "What? It's true. He's got his own missions, and novices to work with."

"Yes, I know."

"It must have taken him a month to realize you were gone."

"Altair."

"Besides, you'll see him when you return. Unless he gets sent on a mission before. Then it could be months longer. Or Al Mualim could decide to keep you here and then you'd never see him—"

"Altair!"

"What?"

Malik rubs his forehead. "Thank you for the comfort," he says. "I think. But I have to return this feather to the _Rafik_ and I'm sure you have soldiers to stab somewhere that isn't here."

"You nag like an old man. Like a woman." Altair, smiling, presses a finger to Malik's lips: a little possessive touch that has Malik's hackles rising.

In retaliation he says, "Maybe that's a sign. I've passed my twenty third year, maybe I should ask Al Mualim for permission to marry."

Sure enough, Altair switches from grin to glower. "What, fallen in love with a brothel whore like Rauf? You need to know a woman before you can ask."

Malik shrugs. "It's easily enough arranged. If I wait much longer I'll be too old."

"You're a man, not a woman. Age doesn't matter for men. Besides, you're an assassin and assassins…"

"I know, I know." Malik chuckles. "I'm not really interested in marriage. Kadar, on the other hand…d'you know, the last letter he sent me was all about this girl he met in the village?"

"Spied on like all the other lovesick novices, you mean."

"No, he actually talked to her. She was drawing well water and he popped out of a hay cart. He says she's beautiful. Says it in excruciating detail."

"I'm already bored. Who cares if your brother gets married? It's normal. He's the right age."

Malik tries to picture Kadar a husband—a _father_—and grimaces.

"Let's just get back to the bureau."

_-i-_

The Damascus _Rafik_ takes their feathers and their stories, and then sends them on their way. There is a lot of hard, dusty riding ahead of them, but Malik is happy to saddle his horse at the city's gates. Others will continue the fight against Templar corruption here: for Malik comes a well-deserved break at home.

For the first time in a while he has company during the trip. Altair rides at his side, and over the wind and sound of galloping hooves they yell insults and jokes at one another. The first night they rest at the home of an informer, the second they find space in an old tower turned assassin way station, but after that Altair insists they make camp along the road.

Or rather, not along the road. Far enough from the road that no other travelers might wander across them. Malik pretends Altair's caution comes from an assassin's need to stay unseen. He is quite happy to stay thus deluded until he turns from lighting the campfire to find his companion already undressed and eager.

After a week's worth of this Malik can say only that it isn't actually _comfortable_, having sex outdoors. He'll be picking brambles out of places brambles don't belong for days. But that isn't to say it isn't also enjoyable…and Altair gets so grabby when he isn't sated. Even in public.

(Malik will never understand it. He'll never understand how Altair can be so showy in this one thing. Never mind the danger, does it really not bother him at all? Does he really see no problem with this strange lust that's ensnared them?

Malik sleeps with Altair because he enjoys it, because it stirs him on a deep level he hadn't know was there, because it would be so hard to stop. Even alone he'll dream of Altair and wake up half-hard, his hand wrapped around his prick. Malik sleeps with Altair because it feels _necessary_—

But he knows it isn't right.

Men do not take carnal pleasure with other men. Men especially do not become emotionally attached to other men. They don't live their lives as if the great epics spoke of their perversion alongside the hero's proper love.

It's not that he feels guilty. Malik can be greedy, can be selfish. Can hunger. But as the opium addict rots his brain in secret dens and the whore plies her trade under cover of night, Malik keeps this part of himself closed off. He doesn't like that Kadar knows, though the younger boy hasn't mentioned it since.

Altair, who sneers at love, would brag of his conquest to the world. Malik is content to fuck in secret. To leave it alone.)

The road empties out a mile or so away from Masyaf. The arid land is still, but the stillness is a strange sort, heavy and looming. Altair falls silent and prods his horse to move faster. Malik finds himself looking for other travelers. This close to the village, the path should be crowded with farmers going to market and caravans passing through.

The silence grows ever more cloying. It's laced with the sick-sweet tang of fruit left out to rot. The farther down the road they ride, the more that tang becomes a real thing, sour and solid, something meatier than fruit sitting forgotten in the heat. There are flies everywhere, but there aren't any birds.

Altair says, "Something's wrong," and hunches forward in his saddle.

There are always assassins by the old arches, but not today. Today the field past the arches is quiet and unguarded. Without a word Altair nudges his horse off the road, and Malik follows after. There's no need for platitudes or worried questions: they both know the scent of death by now.

Malik finds the first body propped up against a little mound of ancient stone. It's an assassin, a man he knows by sight but not name, dressed in guard's short coattails stained bright red. Unseeing eyes reflect the horizon.

Danger swirling in the race of his heartbeat, Malik dismounts from his horse. Altair is already moving fast through the high weeds, searching. It is an animal's edgy caution that has them both so noiseless now, so grimly focused.

Another dead assassin, face down in the dirt, a spear jutting from between his shoulder blades. And another. And another close by…

Altair leans down and just as quickly straightens back up. "Here's a Templar," he says.

"The grass is trampled all along the road's edge," Malik notes. "A lot of men came through this way. A dozen, maybe, on horseback."

"No. More. There are always at least twenty assassins here. It would take double that number of Crusaders to wipe them all out."

Malik turns back to the field. Twenty assassins? Yes, and everywhere he looks he sees another body. Piles of horse droppings and an occasional piece of dropped armor prove it. The outskirts of Al Masyaf have been turned into a battlefield.

"The bodies are fresh," Altair says. "They haven't started to swell."

"Which happens within the hour under this sun. We've just missed the battle, Altair." Malik swears. "Damn the bastards. What ill wind led them here?"

"Be it man or _djinni_, it'll taste my sword."

"Wait a minute. We need to alert the rest of the Brotherhood—"

"There isn't time!" Altair swings himself up on his horse, nostrils flaring. "It will take weeks to get word to the city _Rafiks._ We are here, so we will be the reinforcements."

"We are only two men! And we don't know what we're riding into." But even as he argues Malik remounts and kicks his heels against his horse's flanks.

They gallop through the second set of arches, and still there are no fleeing villagers on the road. It curves along the high cliff, rocky and narrow: there should be frantic peasants jammed along its length, and assassins keeping order. The wooden walls of Al Masyaf appear, and though they block sight of the village itself, they can't hide the thick plumes of smoke staining the sky. The front gate hangs drunkenly open, smashed in several places.

"There!" Malik says suddenly, and points. Hiding in the shadow of the mountain along the road is an assassin and three villagers, two hysterical women and a man with a limp. The assassin looks no older than thirteen. He reels around as Malik and Altair approach, showing the whites of his eyes like a terrified horse.

"What's happened?" Malik barks as he dismounts. "Are we being attacked by Crusader soldiers or Templar knights?"

"T-Templars," the young assassin gasps, his voice high-pitched. His grey cowl has fallen around his shoulders and his sweaty hair is plastered against his forehead in clumps. His uniform is very dirty and he's holding his sword wrong. "T-They attacked, I saw the Templar symbol on their uniform…it looked like a whole army's worth…they're killing everyone!"

He sounds as wild with fright as the women wailing behind him. Malik sympathizes. For the younger assassins, Templars are a monstrous legend, a foe not yet faced, built of rumor and misconception. It wouldn't be so if Al Mualim sent his men to engage the enemy more readily, but Malik has felt that way since he was a child without much effect.

The assassin says, "They came out of nowhere and broke through. They're trying to conquer the fortress."

"Where are the villagers?" Malik demands. "Why is no one escaping along the road?"

"The enemy blocked the gates. No one could get past so they ran to the fortress instead. But we were down at the very bottom of the village!" The assassin begins to tremble. "We got through but my instructor, he was w-with me and the T-Templars, they—"

"Stop," Malik snaps. "This is not the time for terror. You are an assassin and your duty is to get these people to safe ground. Place your faith in your Creed and serve it as you should."

The boy gulps and tries to square his shoulders. Malik softens, offers him a smile. "You've done well to get this far," he tells him. "The road behind us is clear. Lead them up to the mountain village and wait there, where it's safe."

"Yes, Lord," the assassin says, and Malik is taken aback at the formal title before he realizes the boy has mistaken him for a Master Assassin. There are tiny differences in the uniform, in the length of the coattails and the ornaments hung around the sash, but in all the confusion these differences went unnoticed. The novice even bows before he follows his little group down the road.

"Damn it," says Altair from atop his horse. "Look at the smoke."

Malik winces, knowing his concern. The houses in Masyaf are all mortar and thatch—flames spread very quickly, and if one building burns the rest will follow. "We need to move quickly," he says, "before we're left without a village to rescue."

"A whole army marches down the road and no one in Masyaf is aware? They had to have passed our guard towers. Why was there no warning?"

"Warning? Hah!" The resigned laugh from behind them is familiar. Malik looks to see Rauf striding from the broken gate, rubbing at a cut on his hand. "Safety and peace, Brothers," he says when he reaches them, and laughs again. "You picked a very fortuitous time to return."

Altair leans forward on his horse. "How did you get past the Templars?"

"I rounded up some men and broke through their little blockade. For now the gates are open. But it's chaos in there. The battle is raging by the fortress and this path has only just been freed." Rauf wipes sweat from his brow and tugs his mask below his mouth. "They _would_ pick the hottest day of the year to strike. Never mind the soldiers, I'll be slayed by the sun!"

Malik looks over Rauf's shoulder. Villagers are running past, but only a few, mostly men. "Where is everyone, if both the main entrance and the fortress were blocked?" he asks.

"There were some assassins helping them down the path to the river. But it's slow going on that road, and these damn Templars are everywhere. They've brought the Crusades to Masyaf. All we're missing is King Richard making faces at Saladin!"

"There should have been a warning," snarls Altair again.

Rauf grins with weary mirth. "I assure you, Brother, there was no warning sent. I was in the training ring all day, and I can see the pigeon roosts perfectly. Not to mention Abbas was guarding the main gate. No warning came, by either bird or man."

"Who is in charge of the men at the watchtower?" Malik asks.

"A man named Binyamin. Older than us, I don't know him well. But he lives at the tower. A big beast of a man with red hair. I think one of his grandparents was a Frenchman."

Malik frowns. "The watchtower guards were wholly slaughtered. I don't remember seeing a man with red hair among the dead."

Rauf tugs his mask back on. "There's our warning, then," he sighs.

"I'll show the Templars the same kindness," says Altair.

"What do you have planned?"

"A path must be cleared to the fortress. Then we can purge the invaders from the rest of the village."

"You can't charge in and expect to make it to the castle," Malik cuts in, exasperated. "Think of how well it's worked for the rest of our Brothers!"

"Every moment we waste, our Order is hurt further. I am not interested in shrinking from battle."

"We could take five seconds to come up with a plan—"

Altair jerks the reins and spurs his horse. He gallops through the broken gate, ready to trample his way to the fortress proper.

"Idiot!" Malik is tempted to stamp his foot. "Listen," he says to Rauf, "stay with your men and continue to guard the gate. The villagers need a way to safety if the river trail becomes blocked."

"I'll keep it open. And you?"

"Assassins should cause chaos for others, not wallow in it themselves. I'm going to round up the village stragglers and get them out. We can worry about the fortress once the people are safe. Has there been any word from the Master?"

"None. Be careful, Brother. There are many swords flashing in there, and they'd love to find you."

"As it should be," says Malik with a tinge of a smile. "Swords are my namesake."

He's halfway through the gates, stepping over a displaced beam, when Rauf calls: "Malik! Your brother was helping people to the river, but someone told him a group of novices he's been training were still inside the fortress. He ran to find them and I haven't seen him since."

A knot tightens in the pit of Malik's stomach that he must force away. He can't be distracted now. He can't. Kadar is well-trained and the battle rages on.

"My thanks, Brother," Malik says to Rauf, and then he plunges into the fray.

_-i-_

The dead and dying are everywhere, and to keep from being overwhelmed Malik stays to the narrow alleys that branch from the market. Several houses are burning, but the smoke isn't thick this far down.

There are plenty of Templars still to fight, though the bulk of their force seems to have moved elsewhere. Malik kills those he finds, the sparring brutal but quick, and points what villagers still remain in the direction of the open gate. By now most have either escaped or already been cut down; Malik finds himself aiding his fellow assassins as they struggle to repel the invaders.

He happens to be near the main road, sticking his blade down a Templar's gullet, when Abbas comes careening past. Malik pulls his sword free and starts to follow after, but he's still several steps away when Abbas sees Altair standing by a bench and lurches for him.

"Altair," he shouts, "we have been betrayed. The enemy has overrun the castle!"

The castle? _Kadar,_ Malik thinks, and then, _Al Mualim._ There are still so many soldiers between him and them.

A village woman runs past, screaming; Malik is distracted for several moments with killing her two pursuers. By then a third Templar, nestled on top of a two-story building, has begun firing arrows. He's at a tricky angle, keeping the sun behind him so that it hurts to keep him in sight, and it takes three good throwing knives to kill him.

Malik flicks a fourth knife into his hand and turns in time to see Altair brush Abbas aside. He's in time to hear Abbas protest, "But you don't stand a chance!" And he's in time to see Altair's lip curl with undisguised contempt.

"Abbas," says the Son of None, so withering that Abbas falls back a step. "No mistakes."

Malik checks his belt for extra knives and wipes a smear of blood off his arm, and then hurries over. Other assassins, seeing Altair stride for the fortress, either follow in his wake or fall back to help Rauf guard the entrance. There aren't many Templars left in this part of the village—no sign of victory, though, if they've taken over the fortress!—and the lull is a chance to get the wounded to safety. Only Abbas stands still, one hand gripping his sword, the other curled into an impotent fist.

Malik comes up behind him, boots crunching on the gravel. "How did the Templars find this place and breech the castle?" he asks.

"The guard captain, Binyamin. It was a betrayal. He watched the army pass his tower and then let them inside the gates." Abbas looks pained, his face contorted. "How can Altair expect to break into the castle and fight off all those men? He is suicidal!"

"No. Just very skilled."

"He is not so skilled! Only God could accomplish what he wants to do."

"Then we'd better hope he's Allah's next prophet, because if he can't rescue Al Mualim we are in trouble. Come on, Abbas, don't condemn him for trying to save the Order. Although it would have been nice if he'd taken a few extra men with him."

"You see! Even you know he doesn't stand a chance alone. He'll only anger the Templars and put our Master in greater danger."

"I don't think so."

"How can you know?"

Malik says simply, "I trust him."

"You _trust_ him? Is that all you…?" Abbas points a quivering finger. "Of course you would. And you would appear in Al Masyaf at the most dramatic moment. Just in time for Altair to steal all the glory once again!"

"Glory?" echoes Malik, surprised. "You speak of glory now? This isn't the time for personal vendettas, Abbas."

"Oh," sneers Abbas, "this isn't only my vendetta. You think the whole Brotherhood is as enthralled by Altair's rise as you? Not everyone feels the need to worship _two_ masters."

Malik, very carefully, feels for a throwing knife. "You should be cautious with your insults," he says, and laces the words with anger hot and bubbling. "You and all the rest of the Brotherhood."

"Wait until the battle is over, Malik, and Altair has taken all the credit for himself. While you run around in the smoke and blood, tearing out the throats of soldiers, going half-mad with the screams, he'll be preening before Al Mualim. Who do you think the Master will remember? Who do you think he'll praise?"

"Our Brothers need our help," says Malik. "I'm finished talking to you."

"Wait until it's over," Abbas calls after him. "Wait until it's over and no one thinks to thank you and the Master doesn't know your name. Wait until you realize Altair thinks of you as his most loyal dog, and then tell me you don't mind."

"Shut up," Malik hisses, to no one because Abbas is too far away to overhear. How _stupid_. Bringing up old feuds at a time like this, as if the village isn't burning and there aren't assassins in need of help. How naive to worry about vain things like glory and praise. How in charge Altair looked, marching toward the fortress, assuming the whole Order would do exactly as he said…

"I am not jealous," Malik says. "I am not his dog."

He jumps up on a pile of discarded barrels, climbing easily to the top, then using it as leverage to work his way up the side of a house. His fingers dig at the edges of windows and cracks in the clay. He pulls himself onto the roof, takes three big steps and leaps onto another building across the road, where a Templar is notching an arrow to his bow.

The enemy, surprised, looks up in time to see Malik's fist. He staggers back; Malik hits him again and he falls off the roof, screaming.

"_Not_ his _dog_," says Malik. He's caught then under a sudden hail of arrows, one of which scrapes his arm, digging painfully past the flesh. Swearing, Malik ducks and looks up: above him, on the ledge of the road as it curves up the hill to the village's second tier, are two Templars trying to hold their ground.

Malik takes a step back, tests the roof's firmness under his feet. He braces himself and leaps.

The Templars are horrified. Who could expect a man able to jump onto and climb what looks like a solid wall? One soldier turns tail and runs, but his friend jumps off the ledge and scrabbles for his sword.

"Fine," says Malik under his breath.

He grabs the top of the ledge and pulls up, and if the Templar had any sense at all he'd whack at Malik's fingers while he had the chance. Maybe he's frightened of being pulled down and thrown off. A wise fear, really. But now Malik is on his feet, balancing on the ledge, master of the higher ground.

He runs a few steps along the rocky, narrow rise. The Templar, perplexed and foolish, gives chase. For a moment their strides almost match. Then Malik takes one breath, one in which he decides that his safety can go up like a flame as long as he can battle his way to the fortress, to Kadar, to the idiotic, mesmerizing assassin facing down an army on his own—

_Damn him!_

Malik jumps, knife in hand. He smashes into the other man at chest height and brings both of them to the ground, dirt spitting into the air. He feels the struggle of the Templar's hands and forearms against his own, so he stabs once, precisely, against the man's throat. The knife scrapes against the curved underside of the face-hiding helmet, but his knuckles push into delicate flesh, and Malik stands up on the ungainly force of his own momentum as his victim flails at his throat.

Malik takes another step and brings his heel down on the mask, twice, three times, with all the force he can muster. Metal crunches and shifts under his boot, and the Templar's yowls gain a liquidly guttural depth before fading away.

Something red and white and soon to be putrid starts oozing through the helmet's air holes. Skin is so much weaker than steel.

Panting by now, Malik looks up. He's crouched over the body like a wolf foaming with disease, but it doesn't bother him. Down the road the houses are all burning, the alleys ringed with fire, and the smoke stings his eyes. Figures run through it like fading specters. He sees, half-disbelieving in the cruelty, a Templar knight moving down one of the side roads with his sword raised.

It isn't enough that the flames have claimed so much already?

Malik pictures a metal helmet melting into its screaming wearer's skin. The thought, a barbaric one, nevertheless gets him moving. The fire is everywhere and he hates it, hates the heat and smell of charbroiled flesh, Masyaf won't burn completely but he remembers being ten and he _hates_ it.

Down the alley he goes. There are two village men and a woman trapped at the far end, with a third man already face down in the dirt. Through the smoke tearing at his eyes Malik sees the Templar and lashes out. With a kick from behind he sends the man stumbling; after that it's a simple matter of bringing his sword between the man's exposed shoulder blades. He plunges the blade in twice, to make sure.

Then he turns to the villagers, trying not to cough. "Go," he tells them, and two of them do, but the woman is on her knees, pulling at the dead man's shoulders.

No: not dead, Malik realizes, seeing the victim stir. And not a man. The kid could be six or younger but he blinks as the woman shakes him. His face is pale and stunned.

"Go, before the building collapses," Malik says. This time they both listen. He follows them out, into fresher air, and pauses by a tree to clear his throat of ash. The fire is more a danger than whatever Templars are left this far down. If it isn't put out soon it'll spread farther up…

"Malik!" someone shouts. A man in grey robe, mask, and cowl approaches him, arms outstretched. "You did it? You saved those people just now?"

He squints. "Yes. Raed?"

"Yes, Brother. I didn't realize you were back."

"It was growing boring in Damascus." Malik bows slightly, out of respect for a man he's trained alongside since childhood.

"Brother—those people you rescued…they were alright?"

"The smoke might have gotten to the boy. But he's alive."

Raed exhales, and Malik notices the man's hands are shaking. The cuffs of his long sleeves are stained brown. "My son," he explains, "and my uncles. And my wife."

"That's right…I forgot you were born in Masyaf."

"I was trying to reach them myself but these Templars put themselves in my way, and…" He trails off but Malik understands. Raed was made an informer at the age of seventeen, and informers don't carry much in the way of weaponry besides one short blade. It's more an assurance that a captured informer won't allow himself to be tortured into talking than it is a means of battle.

"Well, they're fine. We've almost wiped out the Templars here. It's the fortress that's a problem. Once a man's inside it's rather hard to drag him out."

"I know…still…" Unexpectedly Raed drops to his knees at Malik's feet, clutching at them in prostration. "Thank you, my Brother. You did what I could not."

Horrified, Malik takes a step back. "What-…Raed, get up. We've known each other since we were ten. All I did was what we've been trained to do, no more." He reaches down and drags Raed upright. "I mean it! Get up."

Raed steadies himself, but his eyes are glowing between his cowl and mask. "I owe you everything. If I tried for a hundred years I could never repay the debt."

"There isn't a debt!"

Raed shakes his head. "Lead and I'll follow. Please, tell me what you want me to do."

"Well…" Malik considers the informer's lack of weapons and his own aching body. What he wants to do is find Kadar, so that the two of them can catch up to Altair and storm the fortress together. What he wants to do is end the battle and save the day.

He says, "We need to put the fire out before it reaches the rest of Masyaf."

Raed nods. "I'll gather some men and have them draw water from the wells."

"Find baskets, too, and fill them with sand. Anything that will smother the flames."

"Yes, Lord."

"I'm not a…!"

It's useless. Raed has already rushed away.

_-i-_

And eventually the battle ends, the fire subsides and the traitor is dealt with. A mob of assassins and villagers gathers at the open gate to the retaken fortress, murmuring with awe at what has transpired, hoping for a glimpse of Master or hero or both. Eventually the crisis is over and Malik can devote himself to searching for Kadar. He hears the crowd's muttering, hears the awe. But he hears something else as well.

"Hey, Malik!" Kadar clambers right over people in his eagerness to reach his brother through the throng. Malik lets himself go faint with relief for a second.

Kadar reaches him, hugs him tightly, and lets loose with months' worth of babble. "You _are_ back! People were saying…did you walk right into the fight? It was unbelievable! I tried getting back to the fortress because I had novices inside but there were so many Templars, it was a whole army I think. Can you believe that tower guard was a traitor? What a coward! And you walked right into the whole thing. Was Damascus this exciting? How long are you here for? Tell me you got to use your hidden blade at least once."

"Which question am I answering first? You're not hurt, right?"

"That didn't answer _any_ of them but no, I'm fine. A little sore. You smell like smoke, what were you doing?"

"We all smell like smoke. There was a fire."

"Never mind fire, did you _see_—did you see what Altair did? Everyone's talking about it."

"I've heard."

"He scaled the whole fortress. It's supposed to be impossible for even assassins to climb but he did it! Scaled the wall and jumped all the way down. His hidden blade snapped off in the traitor's _neck_!"

"Because it's a fragile version."

"Which makes it even more amazing. He took out all those soldiers without the real equipment."

"Altair is amazing," Malik agrees. And of course he is. The whole Order owes its life to the Son of None. Of course. Malik gathers with the rest of his Brothers, ash-smeared and scraped up and exhausted, while inside the fortress gate Al Mualim lauds his favorite pupil. And this is fine.

Of course.

Kadar, at least, seems unaware that some of this crowd is less enamored with Altair. With shining eyes he whispers, "Not that I wanna talk about that thing we aren't talking about but I kinda get why you guys do, y'know, that thing we don't talk about. He's like a demigod! I still don't _get_ it but I don't get it a little more…less? because it's with _him_, and—"

"I thought we weren't talking about it," Malik groans.

"I wonder what he's talking to Master Al Mualim about. You can kinda see them walking together if you look all the way over to the right. He isn't swaggering around, though."

"Altair is always humble around Al Mualim."

Kadar cocks his head. "Will he tell you what they're speaking about later? I always figured he was more humble around you, too."

"Not really," says Malik, and the crowd's disgruntled whispers seem that much louder. Or is it only the throbbing of his pulse? He burned both hands putting out the fire but Al Mualim hasn't asked to speak to _him_…

Then the crowd behind Kadar shifts, and Abbas cuts through. Kadar, not realizing, smiles at him and makes room.

Malik narrows his eyes.

"Safety and peace, Brothers," Abbas says. Malik looks past the beard and budding age lines and sees him as he was thirteen years ago: dour and begrudging as he followed Altair around. Hoping for glory, for recognition. Eventually he found it in religion and stopped trailing in the Son of None's wake, but it must have rankled that Altair never noticed.

Why would he notice? Malik was following him, by then.

"What a battle," says Kadar. "Lucky for us Altair arrived when he did."

"Yes," says Abbas. "Praise Allah in His wisdom."

"Sure. But also mostly Altair."

Abbas lets a smile slither over his face. "But it wasn't a perfect fight. I heard the traitor killed half a dozen captives before Altair arrived."

Kadar's face falls. Malik had asked after the novices executed in the fortress and hadn't recognized any names, but he wonders now if Kadar knew them. "Abbas," he says, warningly.

"I'm only pointing out the truth. Perfection lies with Allah alone."

"No one said Altair was perfect," Kadar says, sounding a little shrill. "But he saved Al Mualim."

"We all saved Al Mualim. Could Altair have reached the fortress if the rest of us weren't clearing the village? I heard you were in charge of putting out the fires, Malik. And Rauf said you were the one who told him to stay by the gates. It sounds as if you did much more to save the Order."

"Enough," says Malik. "This isn't the time."

"But I'm _complementing_ you. You don't want the honor? If it was Altair giving it to you, would you accept it then?"

"You aren't complementing me. You're just bitter because the best assassin in the Brotherhood thinks you're bad at your job."

"Guys," Kadar says, "Don't fight."

"Bad at my job?" Abbas snarls, "At least I _know_ my job. It isn't to follow in _his_ shadow, begging for crumbs of affection."

"I've never begged him for a thing. I've never had to."

"Oh, yes, because you are so wise and strong. You disgust me more than he does. Altair is an arrogant asshole but you…you think yourself a scholar! The benevolent wiseman, explaining the words of the prophet Altair for the rest of us mere mortals. What _madrassah_ did you study at, scholar? How long did it take you to memorize his gospel?"

"Abbas, stop," says Kadar. "You're both being really dumb. Just be happy that the battle is won!"

"If you can't see why Altair is more worthy than you of admiration," says Malik in as ugly a tone as he can manage, "then you're a fool. Take your jealousy elsewhere. I'm sick of you always lurking around, braying like a witless sheep."

"So you're Altair's personal bodyguard? His eunuch?"

Something jagged and buzzing seizes hold of Malik's thoughts. It isn't even Abbas he's angry with; it isn't Abbas who's planted jealousy thick and warm in the pit of his stomach. It isn't Abbas forming like a _djinni_ born of smoke, curling around in Malik's dreams and his every waking thought, it isn't Abbas who won't allow a cursed moment's rest-!

"My relationship with Altair is no concern of yours," he spits, his mind too awhirl to think it through. "Stop gossiping like a petulant child about what goes on in private!"

A second after he's said it, he realizes what he's _said_.

Kadar squeaks. In numb dismay, knowing there's no way to prevent it now, Malik watches Abbas stare at the A-Sayf brothers, in confusion at first and then…

Abbas widens his eyes. Malik wishes he could strangle himself.

"Oh," says Abbas, voice peculiarly hushed. "_Oh_."

Malik tries for unconcerned. "What?"

"Of course. I should have _seen_ it."

"Should have seen what? Abbas, you aren't acting right." Malik forces himself to sound nothing more than mildly concerned. "Were you struck on the head during the battle? Do you want me to take you to the healers?"

"Oh, of _course_. Truly this is a diseased world. The two of you…!"

Kadar asks, "What are you talking about?" with a nervous glance at his brother. "There's nothing diseased about their being close friends. Even, uh, even if Altair's kind of a jerk, he's still allowed to have friends."

"Friends," repeats Abbas, with a sneer. "Yes. Of course."

"Um," says Kadar, grasping desperately. Watching him fumble only thickens the taste of revulsion on Malik's tongue. "Yes. Friends. Are normal."

Abbas brightens his voice into a sort of singsong. "I never understood it," he said. "I asked Allah in every prayer why He would give the likes of Altair such gifts. A disbeliever, a heretic, a braggart…why would Allah give him what he never deserved? But now I see."

"See what?" Malik interrupts. "You're rambling like a madman. You've been in the sun too long."

"No one can escape Allah's wrath. Not even Altair. I see now how he's been cursed." Abbas looks at Malik and smiles. "I remember once I asked you why you were so eager to let him lead you around. You remember it? What I said? To think, I was only _joking_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Malik grits out. "And neither do you."

"I think we both know—"

Then Kadar grabs Abbas by the shoulder and pushes him back. The older man is so startled he doesn't fight back, only steadies his footing. Malik blinks.

"Enough already," Kadar shouts. "We're Brothers. We're on the same side. Today Master Al Mualim almost _died_. Altair, not Altair…I'm sick of talking about Altair! If you guys can't be civil than just…just leave it alone." He scowls and points a finger at Malik. "You've been away for _months_ and I've got a ton of stuff to tell you. Stop fighting with Abbas and we can _talk_."

"Right," Malik manages. "Ah. Sorry, Kadar."

"Hmph." Kadar turns his glare on Abbas, who only curls his lip and shrugs. He pushes roughly past Kadar with his shoulder, so that Malik has to force himself not to throw a punch, but the younger A-Sayf only sighs. "Stupid," he says to Malik, quieter. His eyes are still wide and nervous, though. "You were acting really _stupid_."

"I know," says Malik, and then stops. Because Abbas hasn't quite left yet. He stops so that his back is to Malik, turns his head and drops his voice so that Kadar can't overhear.

Abbas murmurs in Malik's ear, "We'll finish this later, _zamel."_

Malik whirls around to face him, but the crowd is only growing larger as the village waits for news, and by the time Malik has shoved his way past a few people, Abbas is long gone.

_-i-_

It will take time to repair the damage done in Masyaf. Worse still is the mood: though it was a victory it feels like a defeat. For an assassin, for one of their own, to turn traitor in such a violent way? Kadar did in fact know several of the executed assassins, and Malik doesn't know how to comfort him. Dying in battle is one thing. Dying at the hands of an intelligent and worthy foe…there is no dishonor in that.

But to die at the hands of one you called Brother…

Malik spends a few days with Rauf and Raed, helping to resettle the homeless and ensure the watchtower down the road is adequately protected. He sends messages to men he knows in Damascus and Jerusalem, urging caution in case this rot goes further down. He spends long hours sparring with Altair, who will not talk about his conversation with Al Mualim, and who refuses to admit Binyamin's actions have him rattled.

He sees Abbas occasionally. They ignore each other, and that's fine, but Malik is still waiting for the sword to fall.

It falls a few weeks later, but not in the way he was expecting.

Walking to his room one night with Altair, the two of them discussing tactics and tests of loyalty, Malik reaches a hand out to push open his door and pauses. At his side Altair stiffens. They both hear the sound of footsteps coming at them from the gloom, both behind them and from the dark, dead-end hallway up ahead.

The fight is quick and silent and impossible. It's been years since Malik's failed to hit his target, but though his punches are as controlled as always this time all they hit is air. It could be one man he's fighting, it could be twelve: in the darkness it's hard to see. Altair is fighting just as fiercely at his side, growling with the effort, but even he is overcome.

Malik's arms are pinned behind his back and a hand slaps over his eyes. He snarls and arches his back to kick out at whoever he can reach, but before he can a voice hisses in his ear:

"Be still, assassin! You have reached your final test. Whatever harm comes to you now will be from your own mistakes."

Malik tenses in his captor's grip. The voice, old and not old at the same time, is not familiar. Neither is the strength of the hands clutching him. He struggles to catch his breath, and by his side he somehow senses Altair stiffen with surprise.

"The final test," Altair repeats, and then all the stiffness goes out of him and Malik knows he's smirking. "You come to promote us to highest rank."

"If you are capable," the voice warns. "If you can survive the sacrifice."

"Take my finger now if you want," Altair scoffs. "I'm more than ready. You've waited too long."

"We will see," says the voice. "Be cautious, assassin. You are not a Master Assassin yet."

Malik tries to parse through his feelings but in the dark it all feels a fevered dream. He can feel the belt of the man behind him digging into his back, can feel the breath on the back of his neck, but none of it seems real. He should be as eager as Altair, and on one level he is, but mostly all he can think is that it's a shame he'll have to wait until after to tell Kadar what's occurred.

The voice says, "The ceremony will not happen here. You both must prove your worth."

"Take us where we need to go then," counters Altair, "and be quick about it."

Someone is tying a blindfold over Malik's eyes. He tilts his head to catch the sounds around him and marvels that there is no fear.

Oh, he is more like Altair than he realized. He is _ready_. He is so eager to begin.

"The two of us," Altair says with pride and satisfaction. "We'll reach top rank together and lead the Order as we should."

Malik thinks to answer but the words won't come. It doesn't matter. His guide turns him around and they begin to walk. Outside, Masyaf's wreckage has been cleared away.

Inside it will be the same.


	20. Part Two: Chapter Four

AN: A little bit of artistic license in this chapter. You'll know it when you see it and I think it makes sense, based on what we've been given with the canon. Warnings for sex, language, and a battle that was a long time coming.

Theirs is the healthiest relationship ever. I swear.

Usual thanks to _skywalker05_ for the fight choreography.

* * *

_**The Cruelty of Kings**_

It is a strange thing.

Logically Malik knows where he is from the instant they remove his blindfold: he's never been inside the Master's garden but he knows it exists, a sloping expanse of shocking green, shrouded from the sun by overhanging awnings. Decorative tiles line the edges, cool to the touch. Fountains burble into pools. Iron fencework blocks off the edge of the garden from the steep cliffs beyond. It is a place nearing paradise, drenched in the smell of flowers, in the sight of blue sky, the river a tamed beast flowing far below. Now, at night, the stars are jewels overhead, glimpsed from underneath lattice screens and flowering trees.

Malik knows he is only in the garden but still he keeps thinking he might be in Heaven, instead.

If he had time to reflect he might have considered the many jars scattered about the corners, and the white smoke they're all spewing. But the thick incense gets in his eyes, his nose, tastes sick-sweet on his tongue. Everything is cloudy. Distant. Unreal.

It isn't that he can't see…as an assassin he's aware of his surroundings even when blind. So he knows he's in the garden, surrounded by men hidden behind masks and billowing, white _djellabas_. He knows Altair is standing at his side. He knows Al Mualim is there, at the garden's far end, watching with his hands folded behind his back.

But there is something in the incense, something designed to fool his mind if not his vision. How many masked men are there? Malik's having trouble counting them. They blur together, legs and arms blending and disjointing, one man's head sprouting where another's chest had been. And they won't stop _moving_. They circle like hungry vultures, or at least Malik thinks they do.

Altair is steady on his feet but his face has taken a grey tinge. He moves his lips: "Enough of this pageantry." But no one reacts to his words. The other assassins keep moving—_are_ they moving?—and the Master keeps watching, and soon Malik doubts that Altair said anything at all.

He turns his drugged gaze from the Master to Altair to the masked men. Their robes are pure white, down to the sash, and cut long about the ankles. Their sleeves billow. Their masks are white as well, crude things with no decoration, just spots hacked out for the eyes.

Are they really assassins? They look more like ghosts. Like puffs of incense from a gilded jar.

The world spins and spins and Malik leans into it, standing upright but only just. The aroma is _so_ heavy. He smells lady's perfumes from far-off kingdoms, stacks of scrolls layered with dust, the spicy tang of stew and the sagging stench of hanged man's flesh.

Then one of the ghost-men turns to Altair and pulls out a dagger. The others pull out daggers as well, wicked-looking things, curved and glowing dull silver in the torchlight. There are jewels along the handles. The daggers look more for decoration than fighting, but there's no doubting the bite of their blades.

Do they expect Altair to fight off all these men at once? And is Altair at all daunted? If he is, his impassive face doesn't show it. He slides out his own dagger and takes a loose-limbed, leaning stance.

The fight is a whirlwind. Malik sees hazy forms in the distance, white cloaks and shining knives held low. Men dodge and turn and spin, sometimes at the fringes of the garden, sometimes close enough that he could touch their backs. The rush carries them down the sloping hills and through the shallow pools.

Through it all Altair tries to get out of the center of the circle of attackers, but cannot. He feints, kicks low, sweeps the legs out from under one man and jumps over, robes flaring and knees pulled up to his chest, only to meet another three. A red flash might be blood, or might be Malik's overtaxed imagination.

Altair stumbles and stands again, the hood tearing away from his face. The next few moves go by fast, and a broad back blocks Malik's view. He shuffles over, drawn to the center of the fight as surely as Altair is - _get out of there_, _ya hmar, fight like an assassin!_ But Altair isn't winning. The fact that Malik can't see him proves that.

Then Altair's arm emerges, the silver sweep of a dagger makes one of his opponents sweep back, and Malik thinks that Altair might rise up and jump over a few people's heads just to prove that he can.

Altair doesn't jump and clear that crowd. Instead he sinks back in. When one assassin near Malik steps back from the tightening circle of his compatriots and brushes his hands together with a thick slapping sound, as if he's finished for the day, Malik knows that Altair isn't coming out. Not being able to see him makes Malik jittery and flushed.

And when he can't stand that any more, Malik charges in.

There are two men sprawled out on the ground, but four more standing, a dagger's warning on every side. Al Mualim watches. Altair is bleeding from a couple shallow cuts but his eyes are sharp and focused. This is the fight Al Mualim raised him to win.

He scowls when he sees Malik push his way into the fray. "I can defeat them on my own," he says, but his words slur together at the ends, a reminder of the drug they're both inhaling. Malik only nods and pulls the heft of his own dagger into his hand, feeling the weight against his fingers.

"You can," he says, "but you were taking too long."

The masked men have stopped moving. Malik sees now why they wear all white: even standing still their edges warp and blend. "This is not your fight. Stand down," one of them says, and though Malik's looking right at them he's damned if he can tell who's spoken.

"You will be given your turn," says another. "Wait to be called upon, assassin."

Malik says, "No," politely enough. "I will aid my fellow Brothers in any battle. To do else would compromise the Brotherhood."

The masked men say nothing more, only switch weapons from daggers to broadswords. Al Mualim tucks his hands deeper into his wide sleeves and lowers his chin like a bird tucking into his feathers. Malik knows he's passed the first test.

After that, the fight goes quickly.

Altair and Malik don't need to discuss strategy or catch each other's eye. They don't get in each other's way. They _fight_, not so much separate people as extensions of a whole. When Altair knocks a man down Malik is there to surprise the man behind him. When Malik twists into a sudden, low stance Altair whirls past him without missing a step. There's no need for mind-reading or _djinn_ magic. To uphold the Creed they will surpass it.

Disjointed thoughts pass through Malik's head. _Altair_, he thinks. _The two of us will guard the order. _It is a nice dream. Why shouldn't it come true? They are the strongest assassins in Al Masyaf, perhaps in all the Order. They follow the Creed. They understand its tenants. They understand each other.

For the first time in his life Malik wonders, _Is it such a flaw? To do what we do. Is it such a hindrance? Why shouldn't two leaders know each other as closely as they can? Why should they be ruled by the passions of lesser men…?_

For the first time in his life Malik dares let Altair's egotism make sense. For the first time in his life he sees himself as Beyond.

"Hold, assassin. You are done here."

Malik blinks. The fight, he realizes, is over. Only one of the masked men is still holding onto his sword; the rest are pulling themselves to their feet in a scattering of dropped blades.

Al Mualim steps forward. The masked men—who _are_ they? other Master Assassins? ghosts summoned from the breeze?—step back.

"Malik A-Sayf," he says. His voice is warm and soothing and familiar. His dead eye's odd potency is weakened in the dull light. His beard is almost fully grey. Al Mualim is looking old.

"You are smart. You have accomplished every mission and passed every test. Your cunning and your patience are the marks of a true master, dedicated to his cause. Out of the desert you staggered, ill and scared, but the Order saved you. The strength to survive as long as you did was not taught to you here. That is something in your blood."

He pauses as if waiting for a response. So Malik says, "Yes. I had something to protect even before I wore your robes." Is it the right thing to say? Malik says it anyway. "The Order saved me, but I saved my brother."

Altair frowns but the Master looks unruffled. "So you did," he says. Nothing in his voice has changed, nothing in his bearing has shifted. But for some reason Malik is reminded of that time on that roof, when he thought he saw Al Mualim standing at the window, watching Altair train Kadar, his weathered face wracked with creases from how deeply he scowled…

"Altair," says the Master, and the assassin in question squares his shoulders. "I saw your strength and skill when you were still a child. I never doubted that you would reach this place."

The speech is much longer this time, going on for several minutes. Al Mualim lauds Altair's agility, his bravery (his stupidity, Malik privately inserts), his passion for his lot in life. "At times you would turn others away with that drive. But a leader must trust himself."

At no time is Altair's history before Malik knew him mentioned. Nothing is said of his parents or his abandonment or his original name.

"Altair Ibn La'Ahad," says Al Mualim, and pulls out a dagger of his own from his belt. In contrast to the weapons wielded by the masked men it is a simple thing, the blade blunted from use. It looks like something out of a wife's kitchen. Not that Al Mualim is married. Actually, in all his years as an assassin Malik has never heard anything about his Master's private life or history. Was he born into the Order? Did he ever marry, ever have children? And what happened to the man who held his rank before?

"The Creed," says the Master, and Altair recites it. "The tenants," says the Master, and Altair gives them. "What would you sacrifice for the Brotherhood?" the Master asks.

Altair says, "Everything. Whatever you asked."

"How do you feel after you kill a man?"

"It is my duty. It isn't bloodthirst that moves me, but your teachings. The Templars are too dangerous to ignore."

"What comes before the Brotherhood?"

"Nothing. Of course, nothing. My loyalties are to you—to the Creed. Before anything else."

"Before friendship, before tradition, before religion or social doctrine?" Al Mualim says it as if he's reading from a list, and Altair nods his head each time. "Before your own interests?"

"Yes."

"Before your fears and doubts?"

"Yes."

"Before the ties of family?" Altair, who has none, nods.

(And Malik's stomach falls to his feet. Suddenly he feels ill. It isn't the incense.)

Al Mualim announces in a drone that can't quite mask his pride, "There is nothing else I can ask of you. A thousand tests have I faced in my life, a thousand men have I killed. So shall be your future, my child. I have known the mercy of deserts and the cruelty of kings. You shall learn them also."

He motions at the masked men, who come forward to surround the Son of None. Not just the men, either: there are a few women in the crowd now, Al Mualim's mysterious women of the garden. They aren't naked, but the gauzy costumes they wear are somehow even more indecent. Their features are indistinct in the poor light: they could be wearing masks themselves for how well Malik can see them.

They are young…that much he can tell. They all look Arabic. The incense assures him that they are all very beautiful.

One of them steps towards Altair and wraps small fingers around his leather belt, pulling it off. Another does the same with the red sash underneath and a third with his hidden blade. Altair leans into their touches, helping to shrug off all the equipment, probably the only time he's willingly turned to a woman for anything.

Through it all Al Mualim continues to speak, his words an incantation. "Tonight is your rebirth. What you are given now will be with you for the rest of your life."

Another woman steps forward, holding a new belt and sash in her hands. Altair takes them without comment and pulls them on. The belt is wider and more decorated, the sash thick and billowing.

Then a masked man hands him more throwing knives in a small pouch. The silver symbol strapped to his chest is pulled off, and taken to a corner of the garden, where it is held over the flames of a torch for a minute. "Rebirth," says Al Mualim. "Pass through the rubble and come out anew."

The silver icon is held under the cooling waters of one of the pools, where it steams, before the masked man hands it back to Altair. The Son of None straps it back on without hesitation, though it must still be hot to the touch. There are other differences in garb between assassins and Master Assassins: the coattails a bit longer and cut sharper, the belts and buckles at different angles. Tiny differences that even other assassins wouldn't notice unless told. Altair puts up with all the changing but Malik can see the impatience in his eyes. There's only one upgrade he really wants.

"You will face many dangers in your life, Altair, and many hardships. Treachery will follow you." Al Mualim pauses. The shadows darken his eyes as he gazes at his favorite pupil. "Such treachery," he repeats, softly. "But with the Creed comes wisdom. You will learn to sacrifice those who would hinder you. In time you will understand."

A masked man is standing behind the Master. In his hands is a hidden blade in its heavy brace. It's obvious that this one is real: it's much larger than the one Malik has strapped to his arm. Altair watches it, hungrily.

"Will you make the final sacrifice?" Al Mualim asks.

Altair says, "Of course I will."

Al Mualim nods, his face changing. His is still a fearsome presence, but he looks at Altair as an equal, not a student. It is a jarring change. He flicks his wrist and the blunt dagger in his hand comes alive. "Hold out your hand, my child," he says.

When Altair proffers his left hand it does not shake. Not even a little. The stiff way he keeps his elbow locked could be nothing more than a fighter in full control of his body. He spreads the fingers of his left hand wide, and waits.

Al Mualim takes Altair's hand in his free one, and presses the tip of the dagger to the second knuckle on the Son of None's ring finger. Malik wonders at the use of such a weapon. Won't it hurt so much worse with the blade dulled?

"Safety and peace," the Master tells Altair, and is it promise or threat? Then his hand comes down, quick as can be. The blade gleams. Altair jerks one shoulder back, but leans forward right after, as if to counteract his weakness. "A Master Assassin," says Al Mualim, and holds up the bloody dagger for all to see. "Show this man your respect. There is no place in this fortress he may not go, and no man in the Order save myself he may not lead."

Malik looks. The blood on the dagger is rust-brown. The incense clogging the air dampers the fear of it, of that blood coming from him next. He wonders if Altair was afraid. He wonders if Altair is ever afraid of anything. If there's any loss he couldn't survive.

The Son of None is looking at his most permanent change. Blood pumps past the second knuckle into the nothing where his finger should be. It wells, tacky and sluggish, at the gash's edge. Drops splatter down his robes. The finger itself is lying on the ground by his feet, forgotten and discarded. A masked man hands Altair a strip of bandage and he takes it, but first he puts the stump to his mouth and sucks it. Runs his tongue over the wound.

It could be pain or pride or both in the pits of his eyes. It bothers Malik that he can't tell which.

The hidden blade is given to the Master Assassin, who binds it to his wrist with rough certainty. Already he seems to have grown a few inches, or else it's mere delight that has him standing so tall.

Al Mualim nods and looks past him. "Malik A-Sayf," he begins, and Malik tenses. "Recite the Creed. Recite its tenants."

"Nothing is true…" he says obediently, echoing Altair's previous recitation. Al Mualim listens with his good eye turned to the ground, waiting for mistakes. Malik makes none. But he speaks with his mind scoured clean by the incense, with nothing beating within him except a gathering dread.

He isn't afraid of the pain of the final sacrifice: the scars on his back remind him of worse. And there are other wounds, older ones, left alone for all these years. There is still a scream caught in his throat.

Malik isn't afraid of the pain. Nevertheless he is sluggish with dismay because he's seen Altair become a Master Assassin and already—already he knows—

"How do you feel after you kill a man?"

"I don't enjoy it. But I do what must be done for the Order…" He shakes his head to clear it. The crowds feel like they're pressing in, and the burble of the fountains has grown shatteringly loud. He can barely hear himself speak. "Assassins must be prepared for anything. Those who would harm the innocent must pay."

"And your Creed: it comes before friendship, before tradition, before religion?"

"Yes." He swallows. "As I've said."

"Before your own interests?"

"Of course." Altair is cradling his left arm to his chest. He watches Malik with one eyebrow raised (maybe he's noticed the hesitation) but with his lips curved into a victorious smile. He grins wider when he sees Malik looking. _The two of us will rule this Order,_ his expression seems to say.

Al Mualim, seeing the end of the ceremony, is rushing now. The Master in his garden. The Templars call him a madman, a false prophet. The superstitious peasants believe he's brought a sliver of Paradise onto mortal Earth. Malik is just tired of the myths. Why can't anything be simple?

"Then there is nothing that comes before the Brotherhood for you," says Al Mualim with satisfaction. "Is this true?"

"…The Brotherhood is all-important," Malik says, slowly, sensing the trap. "My loyalty is to the Order."

"That is not what I asked." Al Mualim looks sharply at him. The wind sighs through the crowd, bringing Malik their murmurs. Altair's grin falters, tangling over itself into a confused frown. "What," asks the Master, "comes before the Brotherhood?"

The answer is obvious. Altair stares at Malik as if the latter has lost his mind. _It's an easy thing_, the Son of None says through a raised eyebrow. _Just answer the question!_

Again Malik shakes his head to clear it. The smoke is even heavier now. The drug creeps at his lips, a treacherous caress, urging forth words everyone is expecting him to say.

"I am loyal to the Order. I've killed in its name many times."

The Master is growing impatient. "Answer the question, Malik. Stating your loyalty is not enough. You must prove it."

Malik argues, "How will anything I say prove it? This is only semantics."

"Yes, only words, and words are the heart of our Order! Assassins must give themselves fully to their cause."

"There are assassins with wives…not everyone in the Brotherhood lives in this fortress…"

"What Master Assassin has a family?" Al Mualim asks. And the answer is, of course, that none of them do. "You are about to become the highest rank. More is demanded of you now."

"I-…yes. I understand that."

"Then _answer_. Where does your final loyalty lie?"

"_Malik_," grits out Altair. He falls silent when Al Mualim scowls at him, but his eyes are screaming. Malik, not wanting to meet them, looks instead at the old man's good eye and sees nothing but acceptance. The Master is not at all surprised…

"I would die for the assassins," Malik says finally. "You've given me a home here, and taught me how to fight for the world around me. I believe in our cause."

Al Mualim says in a stiff voice, "That is not an answer either."

"My answer is that my final loyalty is to Kadar. I accept that I may fall in battle and I will never disobey your orders, Master. My own safety is not a concern. I know that the Creed sometimes calls upon us to make that sacrifice and I will make it for myself without hesitation."

"But?" Al Mualim's voice is shot through with ice. Altair has gone red in the face.

"But I will kill myself and half the country before I let Kadar die. I'm sorry. He's my only family." Malik lowers his voice. "And I promised my father I'd look out for him. It's not a promise I can forget."

Master Al Mualim folds his hands into his sleeves and sighs. Someone from the crowd complains, "What is this nonsense? You're wasting our time. You've hidden your cowardice under a different name."

"It isn't cowardice. It's…" He struggles for the word. "It's an obligation."

"Your obligation is to the Master!" Altair shouts then, and this time he ignores the old man's glare. "You who always lecture me on the Creed—how can you betray us now?"

Malik snaps, "It isn't a betrayal. I'll always follow the Creed. I don't need to sacrifice my brother to do that."

Al Mualim gives a sad chuckle. "But perhaps one day you might. A Master Assassin's loyalties cannot be split."

"Then," and Malik says it with no doubt at all, "Then I cannot be a Master Assassin."

"My child, think carefully…"

But Altair is not finished. "You son of a bitch," he says. Is his voice trembling? "You have so much talent and you would throw it away? The two of us were supposed to lead the Order! How dare you come here and forget me—"

Al Mualim throws out a hand. "Be silent, Altair," he barks. "You are a Master Assassin now. Don't shame yourself so soon." He turns back to Malik, who's fighting to keep his own composure, and his tone grows more caring. "We cannot force you, Malik A-Sayf," he says. "You are brave and smart. I believe you when you say this isn't cowardice, but nevertheless, if there is ever a choice to make I must know you'd make the right one."

"I would," says Malik. "This garden isn't really Paradise, and Kadar is of my blood."

"Then this must be for the best." The Master murmurs, cryptic as always, "You would make your choice, indeed. Not the right one, no, not for us. You would hold yourself too high to understand the light…" He stops, as if remembering himself, and raises his voice. "It is decided then. The Order is given one Master Assassin tonight."

The crowd does not react. Altair balls his hands into fists.

"Don't worry," says Al Mualim to Malik, and the kindness in his voice, though well-meaning, rankles. "You are still very highly ranked. You may keep the hidden blade you have now, and I will still send you on important missions."

"Yes," says Malik. "Thank you."

"Not everyone is ready when we think they are. In six months or a year you may try again. You'll probably be prepared then."

"Probably," says Malik with a polite bow, and knows that in six months or six years his answer will be the same.

Al Mualim asks Altair to stay behind as the crowds leave. Malik, without looking at him, leaves as well. The illusion of garden as Heaven is broken the second he steps through the iron gates and finds himself back in the main hall. He breathes in deep to get the drugs out of his system.

He doesn't let himself worry about the Son of None's fury. He doesn't care. Altair has no right to be so angry.

(Malik, in his choices, is crueler than he knows.)

**_-i-_**

"Coward! You have no honor."

Malik is standing by his bed, pulling off his cowl, when Altair slams the door open. The Son of None advances like he's stalking his target. Maybe he is. Malik lets his cowl waft to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed to start unlacing his boots.

"_Fikk wle_," he says, tiredly, without looking up. "Go away."

"_Yen 'aal deek ommack_!"

"I'm the idiot? Really?" He drops one boot and starts on the other. "It's been a long day, Altair. I've got no patience for you right now."

"Shut up. Can't you look me in the eye?"

It's stupid, but Malik is aggravated and rises to the taunting. He glares up at the other man, trying not to notice the new differences between their hidden blades. Trying not to be distracted by the missing finger, the still-red stump lacking bandages. "I know," he says icily, "I know you're outraged. It must have come as such a shock to you. How could you ever expect me to make that decision? I've only _told you outright_ a thousand times that I would."

Altair stares at him, breathing hard. Malik stands up, the stone floor cool against his bare feet.

"I'm not going to stand here and let you berate me," he says. "I'm finished with your tirades. I still think Al Mualim was wrong to insist that a choice had to be made but if it does, then my decision has never been a mystery. I've never kept anything hidden from you. So now you are the only Master Assassin between us. Congratulations! I am proud of you. Clearly you have something I lack."

He starts undressing as he speaks, wanting only to collapse into bed. But before he can do that he must deal with Altair, and then he must find Kadar and figure out how to explain the events before rumors start flying. There's no need for Kadar to know exactly why Malik's rank wasn't increased.

"You idiot," repeats Altair.

"Your anger is senseless, do you realize that? _You_ are still a Master Assassin. What do you care if I am not? I'd think you'd like being the unique one. Gives you more to brag about. Altair, this night changes nothing between us."

"You're _wrong_."

And Altair lunges forward to grab him by the forearms. He drops his sash in surprise. The Master Assassin holds him against the wall, lips curled back. Malik, only half-dressed, stiffens and tries to mask his surprise.

"What are you doing? Get off, novice."

"It changes nothing? Are you so blind? You're giving up _everything_."

"I'm not—"

"It was supposed to be the two of us, at each other's side. You aren't weak, like the rest of them. You never looked at me as…you of all people were supposed to understand."

"Understand what?" Malik shifts from foot to foot, trying to break loose.

"How important it all is! The two of us…we are…we've fought together for this, and now you're throwing it all away. Like it's nothing. Like I'm nothing."

"I'm not, I haven't. I'm only…Altair, we can still support each other if we're of different rank. My decision has nothing to do with you. It doesn't matter!"

"It does matter. You know it matters." Altair hisses, "You are so strong but you'd go around acting _weak_."

"Let go of me, Altair."

"Break free on your own. You should be a Master Assassin. You should know how to fight! I know you're better than this, Malik. Stop using Kadar as a shield. Don't abandon what you have. You're mine and I won't let you be a coward."

Malik stops struggling and looks at him, looks at the fever in his eyes. Altair the Master Assassin. Altair the Son of None. Altair the half-breed…

_We'll finish this later, _zamel.

He pushes his face very close to the other man and says, "I am not your wife."

Altair blanches, jerks back as if burned. "What?"

"I am not your wife, Altair, nor your servant, nor your dog."

"I never said you were-…"

But Malik is too angry to stop now. "I don't take orders from you and if I let you touch me it's because I want it. You were never the one in control. Coming in here barking orders like you're Master Al Mualim—are you the Master, Altair? Is that what you think? You're my master and I should grovel at your feet?"

He kicks out, jerking his elbows and twisting until Altair has to either take a step back or get whacked across the face. Malik steadies himself, feels more secure without his back to the wall, and the security breeds hatred. Altair is staring at him, and this close Malik can see the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the tightness in his shoulder blades. This close all the vulnerability is visible.

Malik takes that power and rips it apart. There is no mercy here. There is no kindness. He is angry, and frustrated, and confused, and he doesn't know what Altair is to him anymore. The friendship is toxic. He is _not_ Altair's wife, he will _never_ be, he is so goddamn tired of this endless, senseless _thing_—

"Let me tell you what you are," he says. "You've told me already what you think of me. I'm an idiot, a traitor for disobeying your wisdom. You wanted me docile, down at your feet with my mouth around your dick. The minute I decide my own priorities you throw your resentful weight around and expect me to beg you for more. Very well. Let me tell you what _you_ are."

Altair turns his head away. Waiting.

"You're thoughtless. You're selfish. You're demanding. You don't care about anyone. You think your strength holds you above everyone else. And when you're interested in someone you sink your claws in and draw blood."

It isn't fair, what he's saying. It isn't all true. A part of Malik begs for discretion: this may be an ugly fight but this is still Altair and they are still friends. Lovers. Something.

"All this time I thought you were jealous of Kadar because you hate others having something you lack. But now I think you were just worried, because you didn't understand. Because no one would explain why your family abandoned you. I wish I knew you as a little boy. Everyone turning away, the whole Order glaring at you for your unnatural talents, and you in the middle. With no one.

"No wonder you tried so hard to claim me. Everyone else already had you marked as what you were. 'Everything is permitted'…the only reason you cling to the Creed is because it lets you be what you are. What you are is scared, because everyone hates you and deep down you think you're worth it—"

Altair hits him.

The Son of None is too skilled for his punches to be blocked when unexpected. The blow glances off Malik's right cheekbone: pain blossoms, and a bruise follows. He falls a step back, bending at the knee to keep upright, his neck aching from his head snapping around.

Altair holds his clenched fist away from his body, like he's too surprised by his own actions to move. The remnant of his ring finger is puffy. But he recovers in time to block Malik's fist from connecting with his jaw. It hits his shoulder instead and he winces.

So Malik follows through on the momentum and strikes again, quick jabs, aimed at whatever Altair isn't able to block. But Altair is able to block just about anything. The fight pulls them about the room, and as with their sparring it's a silent effort. No jeering or insults, only lithe and dangerous combat.

Altair takes more risks in his fighting. Malik is faster on his feet. They're as evenly matched as two fighters could be, and they trade blows back and forth. It looks as thought they'll be battling for an eternity, drawing blood but not victory, painting bruises but not surrender.

It doesn't matter. Malik hears the rush of air by his ear as he ducks a punch and it baits him on. He smells cloying incense though there's none lit. He isn't sure what he's fighting to prove, other than that he won't stand by and let other men decide his future. Not this time.

Altair's face has gone blank and cool. Impossible to tell what he's thinking. Impossible to tell what this fight means for him. A few hours ago they fought side by side and were just as unstoppable then…

A knee smashes into Malik's bare chest, and the pain slices through his ribs. Cursing he slides backwards, out of range, one hand rubbing at the tender spot, the other itching for a throwing knife. Thinking himself safe he'd put down all his weapons, and it's a mistake he'll never make again. Not that he would use one if he had it now. Not that he wants to see Altair wounded.

He only wants it all to _end_.

Malik ducks again, sliding around Altair, thinking to use the assassin's blind spots against him. But Altair knows his fighting style too well. The older man grabs his left arm, and though Malik kicks him to break free the angle is all wrong and the momentum is against him. He lashes out again, his elbow cracking into the assassin's jaw, and has the split-second pleasure of Altair coughing out a wad of bloody spit.

But before he can use that distraction Altair grabs his other arm and shoves him back against the wall. It's a bad position to be in; to give himself more leverage Malik summons all his upper body strength and heaves himself up, off the ground, his back pressed to the wall.

Altair must see what he's trying to do because the Son of None never misses a move, but oddly he doesn't try to interfere. If anything he lets Malik use his strong grip as added strength. Also oddly, Malik doesn't follow through on the trick he had planned. He wraps both legs around Altair's waist, puts one hand on his shoulder and draws the other back for an awkwardly-angled blow.

The Master Assassin lets it batter his jaw again. It had all of Malik's pent-up wrath pushing it forward despite the bad position and it must have hurt. Altair spits out blood again.

It's infuriating.

Malik snarls but before he can lash out Altair moves his grip from arms to shoulders and pushes in, preventing any wide blows. Malik clutches his legs tighter around the other man's waist and digs his fingers into his shoulders. In retaliation Altair shoves him against the wall, and the back of his head cracks against the stone. Altair frees one hand and Malik braces for the punch, he watches it come because he is no coward and there are fingers grabbing his lower jaw, pulling his mouth open, and Altair is kissing him roughly, pushing their tongues together. Malik groans and nearly chokes and feels the other man's erection prodding at his groin.

"Bastard," says Altair or maybe Malik, there isn't time to tell, and Altair goes back to smothering kisses and Malik fumbles blindly to pull the robes from his shoulder. He digs his fingers in so deeply the skin breaks.

Altair's blood runs through his fingers and it's a gift.

With a curse that could be a laugh, or else the other way around, he reaches his bloody hand up and yanks the cowl from Altair's head. The man grunts as though he'd been slapped but he's got no hands free to fix his anonymity.

"Ohh, you bastard." This time it's definitely Malik who's spoken.

Then Malik's on the floor, or part of him is, his upper back at an uncomfortable angle against the wall and his legs pushed over his head. Altair pulls out his erection and Malik widens his legs and digs his hands into the ground, bracing himself as his leggings are yanked out of the way.

The Son of None kneels and thrusts into him dry except for precome and it hurts—

Malik locks his ankles around the other man and arches himself forward. It hurts and hurts and he'd be lost without the pain, he clings to it as a beacon, a sign, of what he isn't sure, some ill portent because he is too much a fool to deny himself this pleasure.

"More," he says. "Goddamn you. Harder, novice. Goddamn it…Altair!"

Altair clamps his jaw tighter, his eyes squeezed shut (as opposed to Malik, who can do nothing but stare at the rare sight of his hair). He doesn't appear to be listening. "Coward," he says to the beat of his thrusts. "Cow-ard. You. Are mine. You can't. Escape it." He moans. "_Yebnen kelp_. You son of a dog."

"_Fikk wle,"_ Malik says again. "Fuck, _ahh_, fuck off…"

He is beside himself. He doesn't know what he's saying. Filled to the breaking point as Altair moves inside him and they're both bleeding from the fight, and today Malik gave up the future that was assured him, and there is regret there, there is want.

But he is the shepherd. There is no other choice.

Even though Altair is above him and within him and the stump of his great sacrifice brushes against Malik's bared hip. But what is a finger? Altair marched willingly to the butcher's knife. Malik has seen too many sheep led to slaughter to do the same.

Still it is Altair who's taken control of the situation: Altair who holds the higher rank. Not since they were teenagers has that been the case. Technically now Malik owes him his deference. He pants for air and lets the Master Assassin take and take until there's nothing left to give.

When it's over Altair pulls out and collapses on top of him in a haze of sweat and rough breathing. Malik lies there, limbs a tangle, feeling the solid weight of the other man's body, the sinewy muscle of his legs and arms. The man could be a statue.

He twitches at the stickiness dripping down the backs of his legs. It's not a sensation he'll ever like. Altair has a similar smear across his stomach, below where his robes have been torn aside, but he seems content to let it dry.

The Son of None rests his chin on Malik's shoulder, his breath hot against the side of his neck and jaw. Malik fantasizes about biting those scarred lips. About adding another visible mark to all that white flesh. How would the man's blood taste in his mouth?

"You'll go back to Al Mualim," says Altair in a rasping murmur. "You'll apologize, tell him you were mistaken. You'll be a Master Assassin, just as I am. We'll forge our futures together. You'll tell the Master you're ready."

"No," says Malik, "I won't."

Altair's body is an unmovable weight for just one second longer, and then he's lurching back. Even in his disgusted surprise there is grace. His member hangs limp between his thighs but he doesn't bother to hide himself. Malik, weary, watches him find his feet. Allah damn it all, but the man is gorgeous.

Altair says, "You're turning your back on me. On the whole Order."

"I'm not."

"You think Kadar wants this sacrifice from you?"

"That doesn't matter."

"No. Nothing matters to you. Keep holding yourself above the world like a mystic praying in a cave. It's easy to condescend to the rest of us that way."

"You are a hypocrite."

"You are a bastard! A…" Altair hesitates before spitting it out with the derision he's so known for: "You are a traitor. Just like Al Mualim said there would be."

He points his left hand at Malik's prone form. For a moment Malik thinks he means to point with the finger he no longer has—that symbol of their differences, unhealed and raw—but then he hears the _thwack_ of metal springing loose and sees the gleam of silver.

"So?" he asks, not taking his eyes from the blade. "Will you kill me now? Feels a little hysterical for such a confident assassin."

Altair answers, "You are not who I thought you were."

"I am exactly who I've always been," Malik says, and knows he can't control the tremor to his voice. "It's not my fault if you thought I was something else all along."

"You're just like Abbas and Rauf. Like all the rest of them, only your punches are stronger. You're just as distracted from the Brotherhood's true goals."

Malik can't help but screw up his face. "Did the old man tell you that? All his mumbled nonsense must make sense to someone. Why shouldn't it be the assassin he's trained into his eager pet-?" He falters, because the words are too hateful even for him and even for now. Altair's eyes flicker but he doesn't otherwise flinch. That's the most alarming sign of all. "I didn't mean," Malik begins.

"You're jealous," says Altair, speaking so low. "Just like the rest of them. Even you. You were supposed to understand. The two of us are…"

"We are nothing alike," says Malik, just as softly. "And I thank Allah for that every day."

"You're right. We're not the same."

"If Al Mualim asks me a thousand times to forget my brother I will always turn him down. It's…it's no different with you, Altair. You are no more important."

(In Malik's defense, it does hurt to say that. Somewhere hidden far inside, he aches because it isn't true.)

"Coward," the Master Assassin spits, one last time, as if finally the word will have enough ire to change everything. "You are afraid of what you are."

"To which one of us are you referring?" Malik asks. He shakes his head, shifts to a sitting position. "Get out of here, Altair," he says, because he can think of nothing else to say. This stupid fight…they'll calm down later, certainly, and forgive if not forget some of what's been said. This is only emotion and exhaustion speaking.

Malik knows how to keep his grudges, but surely this anger won't last.

He wonders if Altair feels the same way as the Son of None storms from the room.

_-i-_

Since Malik A-Sayf is an organized man he busies himself with putting the room back together. He washes himself from a basin he keeps in a corner, changes clothes, makes the bed. It's while he's readjusting the pillows that he finds a scroll sitting there, tied with string and marked with the Master's seal. Where did it come from? How long as it been there? Another mystery of Masyaf in the fortress of secrets.

The door creaks open behind him. He tenses: is Altair back to bellow again? It's too soon for him to have cooled off. But the voice that he hears is younger and unsure.

"I, ah…excuse me, Malik but I heard…"

He turns around to smile at his brother. "I can imagine what you've heard. Late for you to be up, isn't it?"

Kadar grins, still hesitant, and moves towards him. "Is it true? Did you really get tested for the final rank?"

"It happened."

"But you're not…" Kadar squints at his left hand, still whole. "Someone said only Altair passed but I didn't believe them. Did you really not get promoted?"

A shrug. "The test was not what I expected it to be. I was caught off-guard, I guess. Not too disappointed in me, I hope?"

Kadar laughs. "Not even if they made you a novice again. Well," he reconsiders, "maybe if they made you a novice again."

"When did you stop being a novice, exactly?"

"Me? I'm a journeyman from now 'till I die, I think. I'm not even good enough to fail the final test!"

"There's no rush. I don't think Master Assassins are as thrilled as we think we are." He touches Kadar's shoulder. "I'm sorry, though. Having an older brother fail like that is probably embarrassing."

"Oh, whatever," Kadar shrugs. "You can always try again. Maybe next time they won't drag you off in the middle of the night. I'd have fallen asleep on my feet." He spies the scroll in Malik's hand, and his tone goes back to nervous. "Oh, so you got one too?"

"Too?" Then he sees that his brother has a similar scroll tucked into his belt. "I just noticed it now. Haven't had time to read it yet."

"Mission orders," Kadar says, "important ones. Mine doesn't say much about it except that you and Altair are going with me."

"Altair also?" Malik refuses to dwell. He unwraps his scroll and glances at Al Mualim's crabbed handwriting. The orders here are more specific, as befitting his rank, but he's too drained to read it all right now.

Bits and pieces jump out at him. Something about treasure. Something about Templars in Jerusalem. Something about Solomon's Temple, of all the strange places in the world.

"The three of us on a mission together," marvels Kadar. "A real mission, not just me tagging along on practice runs. But why are three assassins needed for one job?"

"Who knows how the old man's mind works? Probably he wants you to gain the experience and me to keep the newest Master Assassin from ruining everything. He tends to do that."

"Oh. Does he?"

"It'll be an easy thing with the three of us," says Malik, throwing the scroll onto the bed for later reading. "Don't worry about it."

"Ok," says Kadar. And it's as simple as that.


	21. Part Two: Chapter Five

AN: I've gotten some complaints regarding Kadar's characterization and I have to say, he's probably the part of this story I'm least proud of because he has the least depth, I think. On the other hand, this story is really Malik's story - how Malik sees the world. And Malik sees his brother in a very shallow way. As this chapter attempts to prove.

Might be a delay for next chapter as I work on other things.

* * *

**_Old Wars_**

Early the next morning Malik wakes and dresses. He doesn't bother to look in the mirror, knows already what he'd find there. Nothing new in his brown skin or wide nose, his carefully trimmed bit of beard. Nothing new in his ten fingers. But something missing in the very fact that nothing's missing to the eye.

It's too early for the morning meal, too early for the sun, but he leaves his room wide awake and wary. Meeting with Master Al Mualim so soon after the failed initiation is an unwanted challenge. He faces it directly, as befits an assassin, but he doesn't look forward to its stresses.

The guards at the main hall don't ask his purpose when he steps through the gateway, an honor supposedly reserved for _Rafiks_ and the highest ranked. An honor befitting Altair, not himself. But it would serve nothing to question it. Malik has flitted into a weird land, almost by accident: not a Master Assassin, but not a journeyman either. Not a _Rafik_ or _Dai_ or informer or supplier or guard.

He climbs the wide stairs, fixing his eyes on the vaulted ceiling so he can ignore the gated garden. The mission scroll is tucked into his belt, and it presses into his leg with every step. An assignment right now would be a welcome distraction, if not for the people with whom he must fight.

Altair is already standing in front of the Grandmaster's table, booted feet planted in the middle of the Order's carved symbol. He's left no room for Malik there. Al Mualim stands by his personal pigeon cages. He strokes a bird with one wrinkled hand and smiles.

"You've arrived," he says at the sound of footsteps, and latches the cage shut. Malik takes his place at Altair's side. There are mere inches between them but those inches are a gulf miles wide.

And Malik has no interest in fording that gulf yet. Altair's sulking fits his own love of grudges just fine.

"Safety and peace, Master," he says. Al Mualim nods. Altair doesn't so much as glance his way.

"I've asked you both here for an important task, as you know," says Al Mualim. "An unexpected one. I would trust it to none but my top assassins."

"So send me on my own," says Altair, speaking with easy contempt. Malik grinds his teeth against the audacity but knows he can say nothing now. Altair outranks him. "I don't need others' help to complete my missions. Send me alone and I'll do whatever has to be done."

"For such a mission," replies the Master, "even your skills might not be enough. We must be cautious with this one. It must all go as planned."

"I don't need anyone's help," repeats Altair, and crosses his arms against his chest. "Having lower ranked assassins about will be a distraction."

"My decision is made already. Arguing it will serve you no purpose."

"Fine, then." The Son of None takes a step forward, half-blocking Malik's view. A sharp elbow digs into Malik's side as he brushes past, but with effort the younger man keeps from yelping. "What is this mission that requires me to coddle lesser men?"

"The Templars have found something." Al Mualim frowns, begins to pace. His long robes sweep the ground with every stride. "You remember the Temple ruins in Jerusalem?"

"Solomon's Temple," says Malik, and pulls out his scroll. "I've seen maps of it. A vast place, but most of it is buried under landslides. People pass it every day without knowing what it was."

"A Jewish holy spot, nothing more." Altair asks with impatience, "What concern of it is ours?"

Malik allows himself some sarcasm. "The scrolls we were given explain the concern. The _Dai_ in Jerusalem sent his men there on a mission and they found something of importance. The scrolls use small words, Brother, but maybe they're still too hard for you to read?"

"It explains why you've been selected, then," says Altair, nastily. "I'll need someone to hold the map while I attend to the actual work."

The Master holds up a hand. "Enough," he says. "You must work together on this mission. Listen, now. The _Dai_ withdrew his men until he received further instruction, but time is against us. The Templar Order has gone through upheaval recently. The Crusades have kept King Richard's eyes fixed upon this land, and the Templars are struggling under the scrutiny of those they pretend to love."

"This sounds like a boon for us," says Malik.

"As I thought until this past year. A new man took control of the Templars, and he is determined to win before the Christian kings can interfere."

"Win what? The Holy Land?"

"No, more. We know that the Templars want control over the world, so that they may enforce their foul version of peace. A great dictatorship with no thought of human nature or personal desire. And this thing found in Solomon's Temple might give them the power to do it."

Altair sounds disinterested. "What thing?"

"An old treasure, from before the time of Christ. Something so dangerous it was buried in the Temple, kept locked away for centuries. Our discovering it put the Templars on its scent. A spy or traitor, we aren't sure, but the new Templar leader is as crafty as he is cruel. He will take it if we do not take it first."

"What exactly are we looking for?" asks Malik. "What exactly does it do?"

Al Mualim frowns. "To explain it would be dangerous. Temptation is ever a challenge. I am certain that this thing is a danger and that the Knights Templar will spill much blood to get it."

"Surely the bureau's assassins can handle this. They found it once already."

"Temptation," repeats Al Mualim, something foggy in his gaze. "The apple's lure to Eve. No, it is too dangerous for any but the strongest fighters. I trust few men to succeed."

The vagueness is strange, but Altair still just sounds bored. "So we're to fetch this artifact for you."

"Yes. It must be done in absolute secrecy. Look for the Arc."

The meaning passes Altair by, but Malik still pulls books from the lower library's shelves and remembers the holy texts' stories. "The Arc of the Covenant?" he says, not quite believing. "But that is a myth."

"Yet if you saw it you would surely understand… Listen, both of you. Carry the entire thing back to me: arc and chalice both. Don't touch it directly. Its origin is a mystery despite my best attempts, but its power is real."

"A ghost story from a book of lies," scoffs Altair. "This is what concerns both Orders? Sell the thing to the Jews and use the money to buy real weapons."

"I've given you your mission," says Al Mualim, but he doesn't sound irritated. If anything he seems amused. Relieved. Malik mulls on it. "You'll take Kadar with you. This mission will be good training for him, and an extra set of hands might prove useful. You may leave him at the bureau if you judge it best. Tell him only what you think he needs to know."

The basic rules for a younger assassin accompanying his elders. Malik knows Kadar will be furious if he's told to stay behind.

"Talk with the _Dai_ before you enter the Temple," the Master continues, "but come straight back once the Arc is in your hands. Be on your guard for those who would follow you. Avoid the Templars if you can."

Malik says, "We'll stay unseen."

"It may be harder than you think. Robert de Sablé has eyes in every alley."

_Robert de Sablé?_ Malik knows the name, knows it and can't place it, feels ill without warning. De Sablé. He's seen the name before. Has he seen the man?

Altair flicks his wrist and the hidden blade pops out, so sharp the air might split around it, glinting where his finger isn't. He gives it a loving look before letting it slide back in its brace. "It won't be hard. If I should see a Templar I'll kill him."

"Solomon's Temple is revered ground," Malik argues, his own finger twitching with a physical jealousy, "even if it's half-forgotten. We should avoid spilling blood there unless we want to spark yet another holy war."

"Some people aren't brave enough for this life," Altair says. He could possibly be speaking to the pigeons. "Some people are worried by the daily _jihads_ of ignorant commoners."

"Some people haven't bothered to learn the damn Creed," snarls Malik. "They ought to ask their fellow novices for advice!"

Altair peers at him through squinted eyes. "And what advice would they give me? If it's the same advice that has you bowing to your equals…"

"I'm not bowing to you, Altair."

"And I am not your equal."

Malik is so angry he can _see_ it, a red flash between the eyes. But Al Mualim clears his throat and puts them both to silence.

"Such high-ranking assassins should not bicker like children," he chides. "Go now. Leave as quick as you can." He starts to add something else, stops, and finishes with only: "Do not fail me in this task."

There must be more to the discussion, for Al Mualim loves ceremony. There must be more instructions, more details, more warnings. There must, at least, be the dutiful rounds of _safety and peace_.

If there are, Malik isn't aware. He puts his body through motions it knows as natural instinct, but his mind is choked with frustration. Assassins should have more control, he realizes that, but still he's irascent at the thought of Altair's strutting.

(The thing is that he isn't strutting, as they leave the main hall, Altair ahead and Malik trudging after. He looks so grim. He should be bragging about honor and skill, to himself if not to Malik, but he isn't.

There's no one else who would freely listen to him brag, except maybe Kadar. So Malik can be confident of a bitter victory: their friendship's dissolution will hurt the Son of None far more than it will hurt the King of Swords.)

Once outside Malik begins to walk across the courtyard in search of his brother. But Altair stops him before he can get very far.

"This is my mission," the older man says. "You'll obey my orders while we're gone."

Malik looks past his shoulder so he doesn't have to look at his face. "I don't remember Al Mualim putting you in charge."

"I'm a Master Assassin. You aren't. Why don't we ask him if you're unsure?" Malik is silent. "As I thought. Be at the stables in an hour. Make sure Kadar is there too."

"You can't have all the glory," Malik says in a low voice. "You don't deserve it."

Altair bares his teeth. It might be a smile. "Are you Malik?" he asks. "Or are you Abbas?"

Malik stalks past him rather than answer. Nothing is simple now.

_-i-_

The sun is ruthless. More ruthless still is the hush that lingers as the three assassins saddle their horses just outside Masyaf's gates. Malik glares down at his mount as he loads the extra bundles of food and supplies. Altair is similarly closed off.

Kadar says cheerfully, "We'll move fast in this heat. The roads will be empty." No one says anything, but Kadar is used to filling every pause with words. "Though I guess we'd better not push ourselves too hard, either. We should buy some camels next time the merchant caravans come through." Still no answer. "So, tell me, what's our plan for this mission? Let's have the details. It must be serious for all the secrecy."

"I've explained everything already," Malik tells him.

"All you've said is that there're Templars in Jerusalem, like there always are, and that we have to keep them from getting some artifact or something."

"That's all there is to say. We can't make detailed plans until we talk with the _Dai_."

"But what is the artifact? And why will it take three assassins to fetch it?"

"No assassin can accomplish everything on his own…"

"_Hnn_," says Altair, to his horse.

Malik clenches both hands into fists, has to fight to relax his fingers. "It's safer this way," he continues. "The artifact is dangerous, and Jerusalem is a confusing place. By working together we can…"

"Does he really think I'd ever need his help?" wonders Altair.

"_By working together_ we're doing as the Creed requires. _Some_ of us care for the tenets of the Order."

"I think he really expects to be useful. Doesn't he realize journeymen are as common as flies? I could pick up an escort in the city if I wanted."

Malik smacks his open palm against the saddle. "You manage to make yourself sound more wretched every time you open your mouth."

"Um," says Kadar.

"Journeymen should not call Master Assassins ignorant."

"Your fancy title isn't a shield, Altair. It won't keep my fists away!"

"I'm not afraid of your fists or your temper. You're a dog who barks because he's afraid to bite."

"It's intolerable. I won't go on this mission with the likes of you."

"Then stay here. I can do this on my own. I never asked for your help."

"Really? Isn't that why you came slouching into my room every night?"

"Malik!" Kadar flushes. "You shouldn't say that stuff so loud."

"I never slouched and it was hardly every night."

"It was every night, and you lingered like malaria."

"You should have been _honored_."

"Honored? By you? You're too skinny, you're oversexed, and you're the color of a dead body left to freeze in a storm. And also—"

Kadar grabs the reins and tugs Malik's horse away. Malik, who'd been gripping at the saddle with both hands, stumbles and nearly loses his balance. Altair smirks but only for as long as it takes Kadar to do the same to him. Now the youngest member of the group is leading all three horses away from the village.

"What is wrong with you two today?" he grouses, still rather pink around the ears. "No one needs to hear any of that. I thought we were keeping certain secret things secret?"

"Ahh." Malik lets out a heavy breath, exasperated. "Yes. You're right. Sorry."

"Hmph," says Altair. "You almost knocked me over."

Kadar says primly, "You should've been paying attention. You're an assassin, you know. And you, darling _Akhi,_" he adds quickly, before Malik can snicker, "are too _loud_. At least wait 'till we reach the fields before you have your, your, lover's quarrel or whatever this is."

"There's no quarrel," says Malik, loudly.

"I agree," says Altair, sounding as if he doesn't. "The mission is my only concern, not the likes of him."

"Exactly. I agree with the bumbling idiot."

"You should watch your tongue before I pull it out."

"Try it. We'll see how many throwing knives a _Master Assassin_ can take to the face."

"You wouldn't be able to touch me."

"I've given you every bruise you have."

"Eurgh," says Kadar, and just starts walking. Too late Malik realizes this means he has to walk too.

"Hey, Kadar, come back with my horse. You can't lead three at once, they'll pull you right off the edge of the cliff."

"Actually," Kadar says, "at the moment I wouldn't mind. You two are disgusting."

_-i-_

The road to Jerusalem is an endless, pebbled gash cut through mountains and farms and outposts. Everything looks half-stunned by the heat: the weeds by the road, the animals in the fields, the people plodding down the paths. Altair rides ahead, with the A-Sayf brothers following side-by-side. Malik tries to stay alert for passing Saracen patrols—a serious threat along this stretch, with plenty of guard towers from which arrows might scatter—but his eyes keep drifting to the Son of None's rigid back, shoulder muscles pulled taut underneath his white robes.

They haven't spoken in hours.

"Should we stop soon?" asks Kadar after a while. "I think we should stop, for the horses. At the next well." He glances sidelong at Malik. "And then maybe you can actually tell me what we're doing in Jerusalem."

"I've already told you what you need to know."

"I'm going on this mission as a full-fledged assassin, not as some novice assistant! You could at least tell me…" He drops his voice, leans crooked on his saddle. Malik manages not to scold him on poor riding habits, but only just. "Are you and Altair fighting?" he asks. "Really fighting, I mean."

"It doesn't matter," Malik frowns. "It's nothing new. He's always been self-absorbed."

"But it's never bothered you so much."

"Who says it's bothering me?"

"You realize I have ears and eyes? I really thought you were gonna fling throwing knives at him back at the village."

Malik tenses. "It's not worth the effort of discussion."

Kadar looks at him for a bit without saying anything, then presses his heels into his horse's flanks to trot ahead. Malik growls under his breath and spurs his own horse forward.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks once he's caught up. "Yes, we're fighting. Altair is annoyed that I didn't become a Master Assassin. He has this whole legend in his head about who I'm supposed to be. He's a fundamentalist in his own myths, no matter how much he mocks the Quran."

"You always complain about him," Kadar comments.

"And?"

"And, I dunno. You just always do."

"You aren't suggesting the fight is my fault."

"How can I suggest that? I don't know what the fight's about."

"I told you, he's annoyed because…"

"He'd probably tell it different, but ok." Kadar shrugs. "Then he's being unfair. You did your best, and there's no shame in that."

But Malik barely hears the second part for the first. "He'd 'probably tell it different'? How can you defend him?"

"I'm not! I'm just saying…you get so _angry_ sometimes, Malik. And half the time I don't even know _why_."

"I do not. When was the last time you heard me yell?"

"At Abbas, after the battle in Masyaf."

"You heard what he said!"

"When I was younger people used to tease me about the nightmares all the time. I just ignored it. And eventually they stopped and now I'm friends with just about everyone."

"You never told me that. I thought the teasing stopped after Nasr."

"Oh, you mean when you punched him? Yeah, for a while it stopped, because people were afraid of my crazy brother. But Nasr was never such a problem. He bothered you with that teasing more than he bothered me."

"I can't believe this. Now you're defending everyone but me."

"I'm…_Malik_." Kadar throws up a hand in exasperation. "I'm just trying to say that sometimes you hold onto things too hard. You and Altair are both like that, you know? Everything is a dire contest."

"Most things are. You're an assassin, you should know that."

"I'm an assassin who can't fight his own battles," Kadar mutters, "because my older brother is too busy fighting them for me."

Malik insists, "I do not."

"Are you gonna let me even touch a sword on this mission?"

"Listen to you, pouting like a child. That's really…" Malik trails off, struck by a realization he should have had a long time ago. It's immature, is what it is. If the older brother is too serious, the younger never matured. Even killing didn't change him. A village of killers, deciding life and death, and yet some of them are such children.

_You coddle him and it will bring you no good fortune_…

Then Altair calls back to them, "The river branches up ahead. We'll rest there for a while and set out again when the sun is lower."

"Oh, will we," Malik mutters. "So nice of you to decide."

"See," says Kadar, "you're doing it again. Being angry for no reason."

"Of course there was a reason. He's lording over us like a king."

"He's a Master Assassin who knows the best places for making camp. What, do you want to stop somewhere else?"

Malik wrinkles his nose. The chosen spot is a fine one, hidden by trees and away from the curve in the road. But that isn't the point. Still, he forces himself to keep quiet when Altair then decides they should eat an early supper while they rest. That isn't a bad idea either, but it's coming from someone who's usurped the lead.

Only no one's usurped anything. It's the right and the expectation for Master Assassins to take command. Kadar seems content to follow. But Kadar, for all his complaints, has always let others lead.

As he slides off his horse Malik's shoulders sag. He shouldn't direct his frustration at Kadar. Nothing is worth their fighting, especially not Altair. The whole thing has grown so ridiculous. Is Altair even mad now, or just rising to the proffered taunts? If Malik simpers his apology the Son of None will likely ease his contempt.

Malik doesn't feel apologetic, only tired. But the argument is starting to fester, to sprout other ills. The sneaking tendrils of his anger are sending out spores. So if apologizing to Altair will calm them both down, he will. And later, when this overwrought mission is finished, he'll force Altair to listen to him, really listen once and for all, to words and not to fists. Neither of them are women and so neither of them are willing to defer to the other, but assassins do what needs be done, no matter the blood shed nor the hurts suffered.

He walks to the stream trickling by the horses to study his reflection in its rippled edge, and unexpectedly he thinks of _Dai_ Faraj. The man is long dead but his memory lingers. _You said you'd teach me great wisdom,_ Malik thinks. _So teach me to know humility from weakness. Teach me how to _talk _to him. How to lose. Because to win against him costs more than I want to give._

"I want to make sure there aren't any soldiers around," Altair says. "Two of us should check the area. The other will stay here to guard the camp."

"I'll go," says Malik, who needs to clear his head. "I'll check on my own. You two can stay here."

He expects Altair to bicker because what else have they been doing? But Altair only looks at him with cold eyes. Too late Malik realizes the older man's taken it as an insult: Malik so eager to escape from the Son of None's view that he'll do all the work. They insult each other without intent now, and Malik doesn't bother to explain. Let the fight linger a bit longer before he bows at Altair's feet. Let him have that sliver of victory.

Altair is looking at Kadar now, not him. So he leaves with grim satisfaction, steadying himself for the humiliation to come.

_-i-_

Twenty minutes later, Malik comes back to find Altair nowhere in sight and Kadar sitting by the stream, his cowl lowered and his knees drawn up. There are some small rocks gathered by his feet and every few minutes he throws one at the water, hard. Malik walks over to him and says lightly, "There aren't any soldiers around, but you should probably keep your cowl raised—"

Kadar looks up at him with eyes rimmed red and says, "You bastard."

The ground is too stable for Malik's shock; he sways back a bit and longs for a good, raging earthquake. Even that wouldn't equal the surrealism of this moment. Kadar, cursing? At him? Kadar doesn't curse. Kadar has _never_ cursed. Kadar barely gets angry. Kadar only pouts or asks endless _whys_ or ignores all advice given.

"You really are, you know that? You're such a, such a lying jerk. I can't believe…no, I _can_ believe it, I should've known you were hiding stuff. You always hide stuff! I'm not an assassin to you, I'm not your brother, I'm just a stupid sheep!"

"What-?" Malik kneels in the sand; Kadar stands up. Malik stands up; Kadar huffs and sits back down. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Nothing new."

"You have to tell me what's upsetting you." Kadar throws another rock at the stream. "This is getting silly."

"_Baaa_."

"You are silly! If you aren't going to talk—"

"If _I'm_ not going to talk?" The younger brother is on his feet again. Malik recognizes the lonely fright in his eyes. He remembers the timid catch in Kadar's voice. It came the one time Malik ever struck him.

But he had to then. There was no choice.

Kadar does not seem inclined to subside as meekly as he did before. He is no child now, and his steps as he stalks up and down are long and heavy. His heels dig deep into the riverbank's soft mud, his arms held at his sides instead of in their usual childish swing. Malik watches him pace, disorientated.

"Hypocrite," Kadar says in a strangled voice. "Stupid. How could you not even tell me?"

"Tell you what? I can't tell you what I don't know."

"Maybe you did try to tell me. When you were talking to Altair in your room and you called me a burden."

"I never called you a burden, Kadar. I've already explained what I meant."

"Yeah. I guess you did." He brushes his long hair out of his eyes with a shaking hand. "And I really believed you. I dunno. Maybe you even believe yourself."

"Do I have to beg you to explain what you mean? Do you want me to get down and beg again, like last time?"

"No."

"Because I will, if that's what you want. I know you're…"

"You are a _liar_ and you don't know anything. How could you let them?" Kadar cries. "How could you let them do that to you because of me?"

Malik's mouth opens but he is struck wordless. His sides are weighted with weapons but he has no strength.

"You almost died, don't try to say you didn't! I was there when you came back. I thought you were gonna die, _again_, after you almost died the _first_ time. The Templars tortured you, didn't they? And I was so mad then because I knew there was nothing I could do to help you. I didn't even know where you were until Altair brought you back. I was so mad then and I didn't even know…!"

"Know," says Malik, because he recognizes the word, because he can grasp it as the earth caves beneath his feet. "What do you know?"

"You always told me they just happened to grab you and not Altair. Like it was a novice's mistake. It was your first mission and Altair didn't argue it and I…I believed you, because you're my brother and I always believe you."

"This was so long ago. It doesn't matter now."

"They didn't capture you, Malik," Kadar spits, with disgust. "You _let_ them grab you, and beat you, and—and do all these things—because you thought that's what I'd want. I was young then but I wasn't stupid. I'm not stupid! If I'd seen a Templar army coming towards me I would have gone for help. You thought I couldn't manage that?"

"No. That wasn't it. I was afraid that…"

"Bullshit, you were afraid. You must always be so afraid, I walk outside and you must be worried I'll trip over my own sword." Kadar shakes his head, slowly, mouthing the expletives in his own surprise before he repeats them. "You were afraid," he echoes. "You starved yourself in the desert rather than share food—"

"So you wouldn't die! There wasn't enough, I told you that!"

"No, you didn't _tell me that_. I didn't know you were sick until you passed out."

"You were six and if I explained it you'd be scared."

"Oh, because I wasn't scared when you fainted? And then again, with the Templars. When you let them torture you because you thought I was too dumb to protect myself. I wasn't scared when you came back with your back soaked in pus?"

"You weren't there. You didn't see how many of them there were. If they'd reached you they would've…"

"What? Hurt me?" Malik tries to look away, to step back, but Kadar is relentless. Everywhere he turns, his younger brother is there, jabbing a finger in his face. "I wasn't six then. I was an assassin just like you. But you never see that. I'm too helpless to defend myself even now. So you keep suffering for me when I never asked you to, you keep hurting yourself because you think I'm such an idiot…and then you tell me I'm not a burden!"

"You are my brother," Malik snarls. "I made a promise."

"You were a little kid who thought he'd be guarding sheep all his life. Father didn't think you'd be fighting Templars."

"That doesn't matter. You're still my little brother."

"I thought I was your sacrificial lamb. Someone you can punish yourself over. God, you and Altair are just the same. Well, I never asked to carry your guilt. You run off to save me, without asking me first, and how am I supposed to feel besides useless? One day maybe the Templars will kill you because you wouldn't let me defend myself. You think that's what I want?"

Malik works his emotions down. "Who told you what happened on the first mission?" he asks.

"If you would only _tell_ me," wails Kadar. "If you gave me a chance to reason with you before you went and did this stuff in my name, on my back. But you never do! You don't even trust me enough for that. You lie to me."

"No, I've never lied."

"You were captured by the Templars at whim? You weren't hungry? You know, I think I actually am as dumb as you treat me. Roaming in the desert looking for goat pens to raid but you weren't hungry. It must have been real hard keeping me alive."

"You were six."

Kadar shouts, "_I know I was six_. I'm sorry I was six! I'm sorry I was so young and useless when our parents died and I'm sorry I couldn't help you keep us safe then but I'm not six now and I can help myself, and…and you are not allowed to fight my battles. Do you hear me? I don't want it. I won't be the reason you're murdered by Templars."

"Stop it. Who told you how that happened?"

(He is dizzy, he is breathless, because he knows the answer. Knows the stench of this.)

"You lord it over my head every day," says Kadar, "without realizing. Every day, when you look at me like I'm a child, I remember how little I've done to help us. How much you've had to suffer because I keep screwing up. If I'd gotten you from the fields right away instead of dawdling like I always did. If I was a good assassin so you could trust me to do my job. If I didn't _eat_ so much."

Malik parses through and can't stand it, can't face it. "_Areed areef_. I want to know who told you."

"And on top of everything, you gave up your final rank for me. I know about that too. Because…well, I don't even know why because. I guess you just like sacrificing things in my name."

With an anger he can't comprehend, Malik grabs Kadar by the arm and tightens his grip until it must hurt. "Who told you? The only ones who knew the truth were myself and Altair-…" He stops. "_La_," he says. "He promised me he'd never tell."

"I wonder what else you've hidden from me that he knows?" Kadar tugs his arm. "Let go of me, please."

Somehow Malik does so: unlocks his fingers, loosens the joints. He is so surprised. Why should he be? None of this is unexpected.

Because the Son of None is so quick to strike. He smelled treachery when there was none and lashed out with the best weapon he had. He is a very good assassin. Violence for him is natural. Instinctive. A cooling wind.

Malik sits down by the waiting water with his sharp mind dulled witless. He can't even rouse himself to fury. There aren't enough words.

A rustling of fabric. After a moment Kadar sits beside him and pokes nervously at the mud.

"I really trusted him," Malik murmurs. "I really did. As much as you trust me." He hesitates. "If you still do."

Kadar pokes harder at the mud. "I hate being angry at you. But Altair told me and I got so scared. What else happened to you because of me?"

"Nothing."

"That's what you say."

"Kadar." Malik touches his hand. "Nothing else."

Kadar looks up at him, finally. "Ok."

"I never meant for you to feel lied to, I was only…I made a promise with Father. It's all he left me with. That promise and you."

"Alright," says Kadar. It isn't enough. The doubt lingers. But there's nothing to say. Altair picked his target well.

The brothers are quiet a while, but unlike on the roof of the fortress, this quiet is a touch malignant. Kadar once said he didn't know who his brother was. Maybe he was right.

"It's so complicated," the younger man marvels after a while. "All I want is to know I did my best to help you. I don't care if you're a better fighter or if sometimes you do stuff I don't understand. I don't care if you're sleeping with Altair, although you might wanna rethink that now." Malik snorts. "I thought I cared about all of that but I don't."

"You were just yelling at me for it," Malik says with a small smile. "You even called me a bastard."

Kadar flushes. "Well. Well, I know you're not one. Mother and Father were married. Um."

The older brother leans against him. "Tell me what you care about, then." And Kadar doesn't hesitate.

"You have to be safe. If you think you have to keep protecting me, fine, you try and do that, but it's not gonna be easy. Because now I'm gonna be protecting you, too, no matter what you say. You're my brother and I've made a promise."

"That sounds familiar," Malik grumbles. "When did you make a promise?"

"Two seconds ago. To you and Allah and whoever else."

Malik digests it. "Do you believe in Allah?"

Kadar shrugs. "I dunno. It'd be nice. I have a lot of questions."

"I hope He can answer them better than I can."

"No, you do a pretty good job." But there is still something bitter in the flickered grin. "When you tell me things at all."

_-i-_

Altair is cleaning an already sparkling sword. He doesn't look up when Malik approaches but the way the ridge of his spine stiffens shows he knows he's not alone. Malik looks down at him, sweating under the low-hung sun.

He'd thought to yell at the Son of None: to curse him, maybe to hit him again. He'd thought to snarl, "You had no _right_," and watch the other man's reaction for cracks he could exploit. He'd thought to say that this was it, he was finished, he would tell the _Dai_ when they arrived in Jerusalem that he refused to fight alongside this Brother and would take whatever punishment that meant.

He'd thought. He'd thought a lot of things.

But standing here now there is nothing he wants to say. Altair so afraid to lose that he thrashes with extended claws, hurting everyone close to him—it's disgusting and Malik has no desire to describe it.

_That I ever let you touch me. That you ever came so close._

Altair is looking up at him now. It feels so satisfying simply to turn and walk away.

_-i-_

The rest of the ride is a gloomy one. Malik doesn't talk to Altair. Kadar is distant and distracted. Altair rides far ahead of them, as if to pretend he rides alone. It's a relief to finally enter Jerusalem, where they can bury themselves in the calming frenzy of the crowded streets. Beggars, soldiers blocking alleyways, the incessant drone of church bells and _muezzins_.

Jerusalem, the holy city. Christian pilgrims, somehow snuck through the Saracen blockades on the roads, look suspiciously about as they try to avoid the Muslim quarters. Town criers with voices ragged as their beards stand at the tops of stairs and bellow the latest war news.

Buildings older than Babylon, stacked high on the skirting hills. Graves of those dead before Christ's crucifixion, ringed with fresh dirt from newer burials. Malik has always thought that Jerusalem, more so than Acre or Damascus, holds the weight of centuries. It has been the cause of so many wars.

But he himself has no connection to it, being neither Christian nor Muslim nor Jew. That every other square seems to contain a church or mosque or bit of holy wall means nothing to him. He wonders if the city _Rafiks_ love their cities. The position is essentially exile from Al Masyaf, but _Dai_ Faraj had spoken so fondly of his post…

The assassins leave their horses with an informer outside the city walls, and then mingle with a group of scholars who know which roads to turn down when strangers appear in their midst. The Jerusalem bureau is a squat, brown building just off a busy market road. There is an obvious door, that leads to an obvious mapmaker's shop and nothing more; there is a less obvious ladder, and that is what the assassins climb. The roof grate is open, so it is safe to check the surrounding roofs for archers before dropping inside.

Malik has been to this place that was once his teacher's many times. Each time he thinks he should feel a connection, a new loss. Each time he is struck by its dullness. Assassins come and go, rumors are traded, the Order's work goes on, but all Malik ever notes is the quality of the maps in the main room. Smudged lines and thin paper: this _Dai_ isn't nearly as skilled as the old one. Malik still occasionally practices the art and his hands twitch to do a better job.

But they aren't here for maps. There are no accurate maps of Solomon's Temple, a cavernous ruin carved into crumbling hills, left ignored for centuries. Any knowledge of its maze-like passages is rare and therefore valuable—or else, to the religious, profane. The _Dai_ describes to them the routes his men have explored, sketches out a few possible entry points, warns of collapsed ceilings and blocked halls.

"It's nothing but dirt and old scaffolding," he tells them. "Before the wars some pious nobles started an excavation, but that ended when the Christian pilgrimages stopped. The Pope has other concerns right now."

"Three assassins for a mission without a living target," Altair says. "It's overkill."

"My men have reported seeing people in the area, for the first time anyone can remember. They didn't look like Templars, but…"

"Could be refugees. Or some religious cult," Malik suggests.

"Be careful either way. Leave here at first light."

"Before dawn," Altair corrects, and because he is a Master Assassin the _Dai_ says nothing. Running the Jerusalem bureau is a high position, because the city is crucial to so many warring factions and thus crucial to the Brotherhood. The _Dai_ has his own network of suppliers and informers, and controls the _Rafiks_ of several smaller cities as well, but it is not a position that often requires first-hand killing. And so Altair is unimpressed.

The _Dai_ offers, "You might keep one of you behind to guard the entrance."

Malik risks a hopeful glance at Kadar that falters before it reaches halfway. He could order Kadar to stay behind, and Kadar would have to listen. But with the younger brother still tense and quiet Malik decides not to take the risk. Maybe if they hadn't fought by the stream…

He has trouble falling asleep that night.

Malik tosses and turns on the pillows of the bureau's outer room, growing grumpier as the shadows darken through the latticed ceiling. Jerusalem is so _hot_. The air is thick with the heat, and bereft of breezes. Twice he gets up to splash water on his face from the corner fountain, but the comfort evaporates in moments, and it's difficult to creep about the room without disturbing anyone else.

A few other assassins besides the Masyaf trio have sought shelter here tonight; earlier he chatted briefly with one about goods filched from Acre's port. All the bodies heaped in the small room add to the discomfort, even if the stone floor is cool and the carpets thick. Kadar is fast asleep, though somehow he's managed to get his feet on a pillow and his head on the floor. Malik thinks to shove him the right way round, but again hesitates. He's used to making the decisions, to pushing them both about as needed. He's not used to Kadar pushing back.

Tossing and turning. He slips into an unsettled rest, dreaming of gold-skinned creatures that grovel in his wake. His father comes on bare feet, dressed in white as a pilgrim or assassin, and tells him that it is an honor to die for a cause. Malik says that he has no interest in martyrdom.

His father says, "We cannot escape our destiny."

Malik says, "But I have changed mine many times."

"Yes," says his father, "when the earth comes to claim you, you shall fight. This is a command from Allah Most Merciful." But the verse he recites then has nothing to do with fighting or earth. '"Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?"' he drones. '"And Allah said: I am with the ones whose hearts are torn.'"

"I don't believe in it," says Malik. "I don't believe in what you taught me."

"All things are known by God. Did you think you could surprise him?"

"You shouldn't have made me promise. I was a child."

"It was a blood promise. Formed in your mother's womb. Spoken or not you would have known it. You shall swear it in your heart and lungs. This has been decided, for Allah is most wise."

Malik blushes like a child to hear his father speak of women. He floats in a world that is yellow sand and blue sky. Then a thought comes to him and he wonders, "Before you said Allah was merciful."

But his father is walking away, leaving ruts in the sand. "Perhaps He is," the old man agrees, "but mercy doesn't mean He's kind."

It angers Malik to hear that, and his anger wakes him up. Disoriented he looks around, fogged by heat and sleep but still aware enough to notice the white flash by the roof. He blinks as the shrouded figure vanishes through the opening.

Then he looks at the sleeping men. Altair isn't one of them.

Quickly Malik gets to his feet. He'd slept in his robes; lacing his boots and tying his red sash around his waist only takes a minute. The cowl and belt he leaves aside, but his sword is within reach.

He pulls himself up, through, and out, where the night surrounds him. Malik takes a wide step over to the building next door and looks around. Maybe it was only the rutted moon drifting by, but—

There. Standing several roofs away is a white-cloaked figure, arms folded across its chest, cowl raised as it tilts its head back to catch the sight of stars.

"Altair," Malik shouts. The figure startles, swivels on its heel to take him in, and then leaps over a narrow ally and away. Without knowing why Malik chases after.

"Wait, idiot! Altair, slow down."

But Altair does not slow down, so they run. Over the endless river of Jerusalem's ledges and balconies. Altair is a hard man to track. He's quick on his feet, swerves without warning, and has a madman's unconcern with falling. He moves easily over the slanted hovels of the poor districts, where the wood is rotted through, liable to crumble, stinking of cat piss. The buildings of the middle districts are sturdier, with roofs of slippery stone, but there are unexpected gaps: twice Malik almost breaks his leg trying to keep from jumping into an unseen garden.

He shouts again for Altair. Neither man is winded; this race could take hours yet. The spectral figure runs on, paying no attention to his pursuer.

Malik's mind throws maps at him and he knows that Altair will have to change course soon or else run straight into the city's most famous mosque and its nest of private guards. The Dome of the Rock is a huge complex, and not to be blundered into on a whim. To the left the buildings end, giving way to cemeteries and shrines. There are hay carts there, strange enough since bringing animals onto holy ground is sacrilege, but Malik doesn't think Altair will willingly give up the higher ground.

So he turns and slows for a second, lets Altair dodge momentarily out of sight. The building to Malik's right is abandoned and fallen down to the beams, which he balances on with ease. Now he is running alongside a major roadway (amazing that there are still no guards) across from the Son of None.

But Malik's map-mind tells him the road narrows up ahead. The buildings on Altair's side are taller. The assassin is a blur of white, a ghost, as he pulls himself upwards, feet digging at shuttered windows for support.

Malik's pulse beats in his ears. The King of Swords is wrapped up in Allah's voice, rocking with it as it sings him along. The Jew rocks in prayer and the Sufi sways, but Malik's offering is the chase. The flight.

_Ghost assassins_, he thinks. _I know how you fight, Altair, I know how you move. I can_ catch_ you._

Then he stumbles. His foot catches on an uneven stone, twisting his ankle, not badly but enough to make him fall. Cursing, Malik pushes himself back up. Ignoring the dirt clinging to his elbows and knees he looks across the road, disbelieving…

Altair is gone.

Impossible! Not even the Son of None is that fast. A split second isn't enough time for a man to disappear. He could have jumped down, into a hay cart or well, but for Altair to hide from a challenge is…unlikely.

There's a small mosque a few buildings down and over, with one spindly minaret. The minaret looks too tall for the green-domed building it rises from, as if someone tacked it on as a separate addition. War money, probably: sudden and fantastic wealth, doomed to the starving mobs whenever an army retreats or conquers.

Malik heads for it, and climbs about halfway. He stops just below the minaret's encircling balcony, braces his legs and lets one hand dangle free. Then he scans the roofs.

No Altair. No guards. Only the city below him, restless in war, and a faint dash of orange blossoming at horizon's end.

* * *

AN: Malik's father is actually quoting from two separate verses of the Quran. '_Areed areef_...': I want to know...

Filler-chapter apologies. I want to get to the battle writing, and you guys probably want to get to the battle reading. Still, the major argument is one I felt needed to happen. I wanted the feelings of betrayal to come from both sides; otherwise game canon would be too cruel even for Altair. Even for Malik.

Anyway, 70% of this story is Malik arguing with people by rivers, on roofs, etc. What's a little more?

I decided to make the chapter longer so we could at least get to the battle setup. Felt like a fair trade off, even though really this was meant to be two separate chapters.


	22. Part Two: Chapter Six

AN: I'm really sorry for the delay. Life has been exhausting...jobs and internships and aborted attempts to move...

Anyway, here's stuff. I wrote the end fight on no sleep but I'm mostly confident in the chapter overall. People have been asking how far into game 1 this fic is going to go, and I can say this: there are two chapters left, one of which is the epilogue.

And then a sequel. Maybe. If I have time. Maybe. _Maybe_.

If it sounds familiar, it's because it came straight from game dialogue and is not mine in any way.

* * *

_**Things of Solid** **Rupture**_

"Wait! There must be another way. This one need not die—"

As always Altair strikes silent and fast. His free hand comes to rest on his victim's shoulder, using his momentum to force the man to his knees. At the same time his hidden blade pierces the back of the neck, tearing through skin and vertebrae. His blade cuts in deep and he tugs with some force to free himself, his arm jerking into a sharp point at the elbow.

The man he's killed, an old grey-beard with a pockmarked face and cloudy eyes, collapses. His body is the short, gnarled thing of a life spent dodging starvation; his blue _djellaba _is torn and striped with blood. The lantern he'd been holding aloft, peering into its flickering light to see the end of the claustrophobic hall, cracks against the floor's hard-packed dirt and goes out.

Altair straightens up. "A spy," he says to Malik's fury. "He was guarding this entrance for the Templars."

Malik argues, "He could have been a pilgrim or a refugee. He could have been _lost_."

Kadar comes up to them. There are braces in the wall, ancient and rusted, but most still have torches in them. Kadar has been lighting them as they creep along. So far they've seen no one but this one old man, standing in the middle of the Temple, looking faintly bemused until Altair's fatal blow.

The tunnel is a crude thing, as all of this massive ruin has become, dank and lined with sharp-edged stone. Malik has been keeping mental note of the few, vague maps that they have, and thinks they must be well into the mountain now, beyond the city walls. Even with Kadar's lit torches it's still dark. Past the torches' feeble glow the Temple remains buried under shadow and earth.

It's a lonely place to die.

Kadar says, "An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."

"Not fortune, but skill. Watch a while longer and you might learn something."

It's an insult from childhood, made only more annoying by time. Malik is galvanized to fresh anger. "Indeed," he snaps. "He'll teach you how to disregard everything the Master's taught us."

Altair folds his arms. "And how would you have done it?"

"I would not have drawn attention to us. I would not have taken the life of an innocent."

"He was no innocent."

"What _I_ would have done is follow the Creed."

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," Altair recites. "It matters not how we complete our task, only that it's done."

"But this is not the way of—"

Altair says, "My way is better," and he must really believe it. Kadar the hero-worshipper sees only the grace in Altair's murder and nods his head. It's revolting.

But before Malik can argue further, Altair pushes past. "I am the leader here," he says. "If my methods bother you so much, turn back and wait outside. I'll finish this mission on my own."

For a second, Malik considers it. He considers grabbing his brother's sleeve and dragging them both away from this forgotten tomb of a place. He considers leaving the dust and cobwebs for the Son of None to blunder through. Why not? Altair is a poor leader, and so if he fails the mission let it fall on his own head. Kadar might refuse to stay back alone but he will follow his older brother's lead. Why not let egotistical men have their due?

But then Malik remembers that fate has never been fair with the Master Assassin. So many times Altair should have failed and yet he never has. When he finishes this task and goes to Al Mualim with the Arc, he will take all the glory with him. All the praise to his swollen head, and meanwhile Malik will be forgotten…

He hears a ghostly murmur: "_Wait until it's over and the Master doesn't know your name_." But it almost sounds like his father's voice, and that can't be right.

In disgust he cuts at the air with his hand. "I will scout ahead. Try not to dishonor us further."

He doesn't have to look back to know Altair's smirking. He shivers as he strides away. (Because the Temple is chilly. No other reason why.) Past the crunch of his boots on the ground he hears Kadar ask, "_What_ is our mission? My brother will say nothing to me…"

_-i-_

There is very little of the holy left in Solomon's Temple, after centuries of damage. Its endless halls have long since been ransacked and left for the rats. Malik watches his boots turn an ash-grey from the dirt settling back as he kicks it loose. This keeps him from leaving a trail, but it also means any other visitors would have had similar ease in hiding their tracks.

Still, there are signs of human activity. Along the moss-draped walls are piles of rotting wood, old beams, scaffolds broken off at the top. Several times the ground falls away into pits, due either to years of the ground shifting or because the Temple's priests once tried to block the way. Into these pits someone has propped up ladders, but Malik avoids them. Templars would never leave ladders behind for others to use, and whoever set up the scaffolding hasn't been back in many years. The ladders would no doubt crumble under the first footfall.

Instead he jumps across, easy enough for one well-trained. Though other hallways branch off this one, he ignores them. It'd be too easy to get lost in here, even for him, and besides, none of the offshoots have any lscenery. The Temple's old excavators stuck to this main path for a reason. Whatever importance the ruin has left will be found down this way: either because the Arc's been left there or because the Templars think the Arc's been left there.

Malik dodges some rubble and comes across another pit in the earth. The hall curves at the other end, out of sight. He weighs his options. Perhaps he should wait for the others to catch up. Or maybe it _would_ make sense to glance down some of the other hallways, if only because the Arc's original owners must have hidden it well. But to plunge blindly into a maze when the Templars probably just followed the scaffolding, could be a waste, or a danger.

Idly he wishes the _Dai_ had stayed long enough to map out his discovery. The bureau leader had admitted to being confused by the tangle of passageways; he and his men could only remember that the Arc sat at the top of a great wall, in what must have been the heart of the Temple complex. Their trek back to the entrance had been marred by cave-ins and dead ends. Better, he'd said, for the Masyaf assassins to find their own way, along the main route.

_All this secrecy,_ Malik grumbles. _If they'd just taken the thing back with them the first time…_ But Al Mualim had sent them into this place, as though just now remembering it existed, and had forbidden them to touch anything they'd found. What manner of thing is the Arc that it requires special couriers?

But, no matter. The _Dai_ had his mysterious orders to investigate, and he'd left what was found for others per the Master's degree. A main prayer sanctuary indicates the heart of the Temple. So no need for the tiny halls: all roads lead to the heart of Jerusalem, after all.

Will the sanctuary look as the rest of the place does, like a cave carved and then forgotten by man? Or will it still have some traces of its former glory, its jewels and colored tiles and candelabra? Doubtful. This whole mission is doubtful, for as reluctant as Malik is to admit it, Altair's complaints ring true. Why should the Order's best men be sent to pluck a myth from Templars who may or may not care?

Voices echo from behind. His comrades have found him. Silently he waits for them, and when Kadar is at his shoulder he moves on. Altair can catch up or not, as he chooses.

(It does not do to hold a grudge during a mission. But Malik is not holding a grudge. In normal life, perhaps, but not during a mission. Holding grudges now would be dangerous. Oh no. He never would.)

_-i-_

At long last the three assassins come to a massive archway, carved into the rock and lined with steel. They step through and find themselves at the end of the path: but not at the end of the Temple. Stretching out above and below and beyond is a massive room, no less daunting for its being shrouded in gloom. Its far wall still shows evidence of grandeur in the carvings, the sheer _size_. Massive stone turrets keep the high ceiling, lost to the dark, suspended. There must once have been railings where the assassins stand now, because the floor is several feet below, but ladders have been left here too. Getting down won't be hard. Getting out will be harder, as sanctuary is ringed with doors and picking one that leads out will be a challenge. It might be best to leave the way they came, and risk giving the trail away.

Malik shakes his head, distracted. This room is beyond what he'd imagined. To create it from solid stone! How many men would have been needed to carve such a place from the mountain above?

"This must be right," gasps Kadar beside him. "It's enormous."

Malik nods. "No wonder the excavations stopped with the war. It'd take thousands in men and money to refurbish such a place."

"Then is that why the treasure's been left here?"

"I'd guess. No one found it until the Master told the _Dai_ to start looking. How the Master knew…"

Kadar rocks eagerly, his journeyman's cut coattails flicking at the backs of his knees. "We should start looking right away."

But there's no need. Just above one of the doorways in the far wall is a recess carved into the stone, surrounded by pillars, given its own roof out of the rock above, flanked by lit torches. An easy climb to reach what was obviously meant to be the centerpiece of the sanctuary, safe behind the guarding priests of its day.

The little roof looks cracked, and Malik can see where rubble has been shifted aside to unearth the alcove. But being buried for ages has done nothing to damper the beauty of the thing inside. The chest is wide and carved from gold, solid gold it looks like, sparkling in the dim torchlight. Two golden lions rise from its closed lid, every detail perfect even from a distance. Between the lions is some strange ornament: a glimmering crown, as might be worn by ancient kings, rounded in the center and jutting out at the edges.

Its sharp points almost look like arms outstretched. The crown could be its own king, sitting on its throne, looking down on its subjects, demanding praise and fealty.

Time has not touched its beauty. No robber could steal it away. Malik knows this without knowing how or why, thinks the thing holy though he doesn't believe in God. _Yes_, he marvels, _yes, men would pray over this. Build temples in its honor. Hide it when the Babylonians came, the Romans, the Christians and the Muslims, every warring group sending every group before it away. Yes, the desperate masses would see this and know that despite the deaths and exile Jerusalem was whole._

Malik blinks, shakes his head. What nonsense is he thinking? A hunk of gold is all it is. Religion has nothing to do with the mission. And anyway it's all the way across the room. Nothing is as gripping up close as from a distance. Probably it's all corroded and filthy.

(But something whispers in his ear, something soft and feminine and mercilessly inhumane. Soft hands touch his shoulders, supple hands and the faint smell of perfume, soft hands rejoice at discovery but sigh, _not you not you not you…_)

"Malik." Kadar nudges him. "Are you ok?"

"There." Malik points, voice hushed. "That must be the Arc."

"The…Arc?" Kadar looks bewildered. "Of the Covenant?"

"Don't be silly," Altair says. "There's no such thing. It's just a story."

"Then what is it?" Kadar demands. "The Arc! No wonder the Master wanted it. Even if it's not really from God, think of what people would do if they knew it existed. Oh, wow, this is better than treasure."

"Quiet!" Malik hisses suddenly. His mind feels clotted, woken from a long sleep. Damn the fog in his brain! Never mind Babylon, who if not the assassins lit those torches down below?

Then come the footsteps.

Kadar whispers, "Down there. Someone's coming!" and someone does. Through the door below the alcove stride three men, all in white tunics and light armor, all wearing crosses. The man in the lead holds his helmet under one arm, and his green cape swishes behind him with every aggravated movement as he thrusts a gloved finger in the direction of the Arc.

"I want this thing removed before sunrise," he barks in Arabic, impatient. His words are swallowed at the ends, the accent heavy and confused. The voice of a Frenchman whose last few years have been spent in Arab lands. "The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf."

Crouched low in the dirt, staring down at the Templar, Malik frowns. He pulls his gaze along the man's body, taking in the garb, the cross…taking in the man's icy, squinted eyes. And Malik keeps going, stops finally with his gaze on the man's bald head—

_they've caught him and bound him and now they're going to kill him, oh, no, not kill him, worse than that, the nest of Templars with their jeers and the bald one, the one who stared as if taking notes, as if intrigued, as if he _wanted to stay

_ and didn't he come back_

_ didn't he come to watch_

_ the name Robert de __Sablé always in the echo of the years, the background terrors, and Malik sometimes dreams of his time in captivity, remembering in every detail and every face how it happened, how _they_ happened, these scars on his back._

_ Every face. Robert de Sablé. The little animal he made of you._

Malik groans without realizing, too low in his throat for anyone to hear. Robert never touched the whip, but it would have been less frightening if he had. Malik remembers that feeling of being a sheep trussed up for slaughter and knowing there were others idly watching his suffering. Robert didn't laugh or curse. That made it worse.

The man has been here since Malik was sixteen, but the sun has not thawed out his eyes.

"Malik? Hey, _Akhi_."

Malik comes back to himself to find Kadar elbowing his side, giving him a strange look. The two of them are still crouched, staying hidden, but Altair is on his feet and cracking his knuckles.

"Robert de Sablé," he announces, sneering under the cowl. "His life is mine."

Malik stands up. He has to work his jaw to be able to speak, so that his "No," sounds strained. Altair looks at him, coolly. That scorn somehow helps calm the King of Swords down. "We were asked to retrieve the treasure, and deal with Robert only if necessary."

"He stands between us and it. I'd say it's necessary."

"_Discretion_, Altair."

"You mean cowardice."

Malik sends him his most withering glare. Cowardice! Here, for him? "You know nothing," he says, very soft. His back aches in subtle agreement.

Altair ignores him. "That man is our greatest enemy," he says, "the leader of the Templar Order. And here we have a chance to be rid of him."

"You have already broken two tenets of our Creed. Now you will break the third? Do not compromise the Brotherhood!"

Altair tosses his head. "I am your superior in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me."

Malik's mouth drops open. Kadar stands up, twisting his hands together.

"Whatever we're gonna do, we better do it now," he says, looking from Altair's stiff shoulders to Malik's muffled, inarticulate anger. "Before they realize we're here."

"Cower in the background if you wish," Altair tells Malik. "Shame yourself in front of your brother. I will be the one to take the Arc."

Without waiting for an answer he turns and leaps from the cliff edge to a lower rock outcrop, ignoring the ladder. Kadar asks, "What shall we do? In a minute they will _see_ him."

Malik stares after the older man, mind racing. This is a mistake. It would be smarter to take his brother and go. And Robert de Sablé…damn him for being here, for stepping out of the ghostly memories and into the present day. But if Altair wins he will win alone. He will be the only hero. The triumphant Master Assassin, deserving of absolute loyalty. Malik will have been only his disobedient dog.

Doesn't Altair always win?

From down on the ground level Altair's voice rings out: "Hold, Templars!"

Kadar looks anxious. "Are we going to help him? If there are more soldiers hidden he'll be outmanned—"

"_Arrogant_," snarls Malik. "Come on!" And with Kadar scrambling after him he hurries in the Master Assassin's wake.

_-i-_

Altair moves with confidence towards Robert and his men. Robert stands with the Arc at his back, lips pursed, looking unimpressed. Maps are spread out on a rickety table in a near corner, and there are helmets lying about. The Templars have clearly been here for a while, securing their position. For Altair to make himself visible to such a powerful enemy screams of overconfidence, but then, that is no surprise.

"You are not the only ones with business here."

"Ah," says Robert, and folds his arms. He eyes Altair with his nose wrinkled. The assassin might as well be a mongrel scratching fleas. "This explains my missing man."

Malik, still a few steps behind, twitches. So the old man in the blue _djellaba _was a Templar after all? It is _unfair_ how often fate reforms itself for the Son of None! But he hides his bitterness to stand at Altair's side.

"Pathetic," grins Robert in his rasp of a voice, "I knew that traitor would send his men after me. I didn't think it would be such a pitiable attempt." He looks from assassin to assassin. Malik, watching him carefully, fights the urge to flinch. The calculation in his eyes! He looks just as he did years ago, like he's taking notes. Or else planning something…

"So, what is it you want?" Robert asks, and Malik realizes that the Templar is not surprised, that this is not a show of force by the Brotherhood but a farce against a stronger enemy, that they have given up the higher ground to scare a man who has spent his entire adult life facing down the desert.

This is a mistake…!

But Altair does not see it. "Blood," he answers, like a fool distracted by his own posturing, and leaps forward. Malik cries out after him, tries to pull him back, tries to shout loud enough to stop time: _Don't you see? He knows what he's doing! He's expected us all along! _But Altair is too stubborn and too fast. Malik's fingers graze his arm but he doesn't manage to grab him in time; all he does is knock him off balance so that there's a stagger in his gait.

Meanwhile Robert steps smoothly back, lets Altair's off-balance momentum carry him practically into the Templar's arms. Then he punches the assassin in the face—Malik hears the sound of bone snapping and shouts again—and grabs him by both arms. Altair, to his credit, refuses to surrender. He jerks his left arm free and the hidden blade springs out, but Robert grabs his wrist again before the blade can near his face.

The two of them are locked in that position, with Altair struggling to break out of Robert's hold. His cowl hides his face but it must hide a stunned expression too, because this is the first time his hidden blade hasn't found its mark. He'd thought it was the perfect weapon. Now it's impotent.

Meanwhile Robert's two guards take up their positions. Malik and Kadar have pulled out their own swords but it will take fighting to reach Altair…and in the background there are footsteps crunching on loose rock. Reinforcements, and not for the _hashashine_. A trap.

The Templar leader hisses, "You know not the things in which you meddle, assassin," and all the while Altair is trying to pull free, blood dripping from his nose. "I spare you only that you may return to your master and deliver a message." He moves one hand from Altair's right arm to his throat, squeezing tightly, and begins to maneuver them both around while Malik remains trapped at Kadar's side. Altair's left arm, and its blade, is still held useless, and his free hand serves only to scrabble at de Sablé's chokehold.

"The Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now while he has the chance. Stay…" Robert forces Altair backwards, step after step with the undefeatable Master Assassin powerless to stop him. The doorway beneath the Arc is open, but there are more guards now, standing at the scaffolding that frames it. That scaffolding is also supporting the weight of the ledge that holds the Arc. Up close the wall is speckled with cracks: without the scaffolding it could come crumbling down.

Robert says, "Stay, and all of you will die." Then he throws Altair through the doorway. Malik sees him tumble head over heels into the next room. The guards both tug at the scaffolds. Cracks widen, deepen, swallow each other in the span of seconds. The sound that fills the room is a horrid one, a thing of solid rupture. Rocks the size of boulders smash to the floor as the ledge caves under its own weight. The Arc lists, a boat on stormy seas, before falling into the haze.

(Malik thinks it must be destroyed, and yet when the dust settles it reveals itself, sitting crooked on top of the rubble, sparkling and undamaged. Even the odd crown is still in place.)

The doorway is completely blocked. The silence after the rumble fades is one of shock, and betrayal: Malik hears no sound of shifting earth, hears no sign of Altair trying to get back to his comrades. Only a graveyard's silence.

"Oh," gasps Kadar, in the hush.

(Later Altair will swear that he tried to make it through. That he dug at the rockslide until his fingers bled. That he heard the screams and heard them end. That he thought there was no hope.

He will swear and Malik will not believe him. Why shouldn't the Son of None lie? Has he ever been anything but cruel?)

"What'll we do?" Kadar asks in a breathless whisper. "They blocked the exit." He clearly expects Malik to have the solution, and when Malik has none he tries, "Altair will come around and reach us from behind. Won't he? We just have to hold them off long enough for Altair to come back—"

"Kill the assassins," orders Robert, in his voice of whips. There are half a dozen Templar soldiers in the room now, and they all have swords, and while Altair retreats the battle breaks on Malik's head.

He charges, his brother a step behind. The fight swallows them both.

The first soldier struggles to parry the blow. A second man—then a third—comes to his aid, and suddenly Malik is fighting three men at once. Kadar is fighting off his own man, jabbing low and often, but in the chaos Malik can't keep a steady eye on his brother. He instead must whirl about as a Sufi dervish, as though he had four arms. This is not how assassins are supposed to fight. They aren't soldiers, they're artists. They should have grace and speed and control.

But Malik does what he must. He hacks his way to a better position, and a Templar loses some fingers in the process. Malik stabs the man through the stomach and the second the blade punctures the armor he peels his left hand from its hilt and flicks it back, behind him. The stabbed man's own momentum causes his body to spasm further down along the steel, allowing the assassin to push the blade further in with one hand. Behind him now a second Templar grabs at his face and howls, blood seeping through his fingers.

Malik turns his back on the dead man to face this second one, all the while evading strikes from the third. A solid shoulder push is enough to send that man staggering. His mock-hidden blade can draw blood, and now the second Templar is distracted by the sting of it in his eyes.

There are three men after Kadar now, who must know he won't be able to fight his way past them as his older brother is doing. Instead he takes to flight, letting himself be chased, striking only when the blow is sure to land. He uses his surroundings well, working the uneven terrain, his footfalls steadier than those of his pursuers. But there are who knows how many soldiers still lurking in the surrounding tunnels.

(And Altair? Where is he?)

Malik flings a throwing knife at one of his brother's pursuers and gets the man in the shoulder, but the armor is too thick and the man only pauses long enough to pull it out. Malik pays for the split-second distraction by taking a strong punch to the side of his mouth. The third Templar is wearing gloves with bits of metal lining the knuckles; the assassin feels the bruise start to swell and falls back, trying to stay out of range while his head clears. The Templar follows after.

Assassins are trained, he tells himself amidst the clash of swords. And the A-Sayf brothers know how to work together. They will kill the immediate threat and retreat the way they came. Robert de Sablé's death can wait. Right now they must regroup. And if Al Mualim is angered that the Arc was not retrieved, then let his wrath fall where it should. Let the Son of None be punished for ruining the mission and endangering his comrades and scurrying home in defeat.

Let Altair be punished for abandoning his Brothers. _The coward_, Malik thinks. His missing finger doesn't make him a Master Assassin. It just makes him damaged. Altair is a coward and he deserves whatever he gets for breaking the Creed.

Malik finally slays the third Templar at the same time as Kadar uses his dagger to cripple the last of his attackers. He's scratched and bruised, eyes huge as he holds his dagger awkwardly in front of his chest. The Templar lying past him moans in random, hopeless bursts. What happened to Kadar's sword? There, too far behind, pinning a dead man's leg to the ground.

"Go," Malik shouts, but then someone nearly eviscerates him and he has to turn away. One of Robert's guards is on him: a giant of a man with a sword to match. The assassin has no hope of overpowering someone triple his size so he throws another few knives to give himself some room to think. The dagger might work better here, if he can cut the man open and dart out of range before that massive weapon crashes down on his head.

Even as he fights he screams for Kadar to get away. "Go back up the ladder! Climb the wall if it doesn't hold! I'll meet you—_arh_—I'll meet you at the bureau—"

His back bumps against the wall, his head rings, blood streams down his face. The soldier is bleeding from the chest but the wound is dwarfed by his girth. He advances with a speed belying his size, and a half-dazed Malik has to stab him again and again while still pinned against the wall, his hands so slippery with gore the dagger slides from his hands in the end. It's no _good_ to fight distracted, but at least Kadar is gone—

Kadar is not gone.

Instead of running for the ladder while he's able the younger brother runs to help the elder. But when Malik manages to kill the soldier Kadar skids to a stop, and moves instead for the Arc. Malik watches in horrified disbelief. "What are you _doing_?" he yells, shoving his dagger back into his belt, flecks of organ meat still clinging to the edges. "Turn around and go back!"

Kadar pauses behind some rubble to protest, "You go back! I'm closer to the Arc. One second and I'll have it."

"Damn it, Kadar, I'm ordering you to forget that and run!"

"But the Arc's important. Brother, we can still complete our mission. And Altair will be here soon."

"Altair isn't coming back!" Malik careens his neck around, near-frantic in his search. The Arc's been left unguarded: why? When in all the madness did Robert and his last man slip away, and where have they gone? Malik would have noticed if they'd climbed the ladder out and the archway by the Arc is blocked. All those other doorways could lead anywhere, to anything.

"The Arc's right there and then we can go. The Templars aren't even here, I think they ran off."

"No, they haven't." If only the light wasn't so dim and the earth not kicked up! Half the lit torches have been knocked over or smothered by the dust. The air feels almost solid as it goes into his lungs. "Robert de Sablé wouldn't run away. Will you please come back here?!"

"But the Arc…"

"Never mind the Arc, right now the path back is clear. Kadar, I'm _telling_ you, we have to _go_."

Kadar looks out from behind the rubble again and shakes his head at his brother. Then he steps out and darts for the Arc, calling over his shoulder as he does so, "I'll be right there. Let me just grab this."

"You don't even have your _sword_!" Malik bellows with incoherent frustration and chases after. In his distraction and the weak light, though, he trips right over a body. His own damn handiwork has him falling hard on his hands and knees. With his cowl skewed across his face and someone else's blood soaking into his wrist gauntlets he looks wildly up. Nothing about this mission has gone right so why should it end well?

But Kadar reaches the golden chest without Robert popping up from some trapdoor. Malik watches as he reaches for it, hesitant, before pulling back. "Hurry up, at least!" but Kadar stays still, staring down at the chest with his head cocked to one side. Malik wonders what voices he's hearing.

The King of Swords, back on his feet now, is torn between going to his brother and staying by the only exit that they know won't lead them into a warren of dead ends. _Where_ are the Templars? "Hurry up," he says again, but quieter. If they can actually return to Masyaf with the Arc…maybe they'll arrive in time to interrupt whatever tale of excuses Altair has for Al Mualim.

Kadar finally touches the Arc. Just as quickly he jerks his hands back. The chest is large and heavy, too heavy for one man to carry. But suddenly Kadar plucks the crown off and holds it in his hands, turning it around to study its every detail. In the center of scalloped protrusions is a gold sphere.

"I've got it," Kadar says.

"What about the rest of it?"

"I don't know…I think this part is what's important."

"That's ridiculous. How can you be sure?" But even Malik knows it's true. Without the crown attached the Arc no longer looks shiny and expensive. Its gold sides are discolored and dented badly. One of the lions is missing its tail. Has it always looked like that? Then what tricked the assassins into thinking otherwise at first glance? Altair was right about one thing: the Arc of the Covenant cannot be _real_.

"Ok," says Kadar, "we'd better go—" and suddenly Malik finds himself pitching forward in an explosion of white lights, the back of his head pounding and sticky'd by a solid blow. He lands on his side, his usual speed dulled by pain. In the background he hears Kadar shriek.

The ground curves underneath him, curves to his body. No. With fierce effort Malik blinks away pain's confused senses. Just in time. Above him Robert angles his sword and thrusts downwards. Malik doesn't trust his legs to bend quickly and rolls out of its path instead. The point jabs deep at the ground. Robert is a consummate soldier and his face is a blank mask as he lifts his arms for another swing.

Before he can land it Malik drives him back with a flurry of throwing knives, his last ones. Robert lowers his sword and ducks out of range, cut across the forehead and hands. Not truly wounded, but now at least Malik can get to his feet.

The hilt of the Templar's sword is tacky with blood. So is the back of Malik's skull. And his own sword is…

Dropped at the surprise attack, and too far to reach now. Robert sees it also and steps quickly in front, a dance Malik isn't sure he can manage at the moment. Where were the demons hiding? So much scaffolding in the massive room, so many shadows, so many archways falling to dust…why didn't he search harder? How could an assassin let himself be stalked like prey?

Kadar is fighting across the room, yelping with the effort, taller than the soldier who comes at him but younger in every sense. He's clutching the piece of the Arc in one arm and trying to swing his sword with the other. _Drop the damn thing,_ Malik wants to scream. _It's not important!_

Then he's ducking, swearing, Robert's blade missing his face by an inch. "Pay attention," says the Templar. "You fight like a blind man."

The insult rankles because frankly it's true. "You could have killed me while my back was turned," he answers. "Hasn't anyone taught you to use the sharp end of your sword?"

"Capturing you alive would be better. But dead will suffice." Robert swings again. His arms are so strong that there's almost no recoil from the weight of the heavy weapon. He can charge forward again and again, with Malik hurrying backwards with light feet and empty hands. Only the assassin's short blade is left and that'll do no good here. Can he possibly distract Robert long enough to scurry back to his broadsword?

"You won't have me alive," he says. "Spare me that conceit."

"Then you'll die. I have more men throughout the Temple."

"Cockroaches swarm wherever they go."

"You are the one scurrying like an _insecte_!"

The bit of irritated, spiky French is unexpected. Malik smiles grimly and continues on, dodging and ducking, looking foolish but acting anything but. His dropped sword is closer now. Around the wide room they go: a dance of swords and scars. A dance of haunted years. Malik keeps his pace steady and his face hidden under the cowl, but he can't keep his hatred of this man from blazing out his eyes.

He taunts, "Templar bastard. Two of us killed half your men. Your Order is laughable. What, can't you hit me when my back isn't turned? I've got no weapon in my hands! What's keeping you off?"

Embarrassment spikes in the Templar's eyes. Good. His strikes are getting wilder as his arms finally tire. Another few steps and Malik will be at his sword—

Then Kadar shouts something, a muffled note of complaint. Instinctively Malik half-turns to throw a knife.

But he has no knives left. And now his back is to de Sablé.

And now he is on the ground again, kicking and gasping, and Robert has thrown aside his own sword in favor of his hands in their leather gloves. His fingers wrap around Malik's neck and he squeezes, a leg thrown on either side of the assassin's thrashing body for leverage. Malik swipes up with hands tensed into claws, digging at the other man's face. But Robert in his armor, his chainmail, his stupid cape, Robert is much heavier and of stockier build. Malik can't push him off.

So he goes for the eyes. Blood oozes down Robert's face in fat streams but he only blinks it aside and squeezes harder. Malik's hands start tingling, his fingers threatening to go entirely, uselessly numb. He fumbles at his belt but can't find his dagger. It must have slipped loose. With strained panting he flings an arm out to grab his sword, which he knows without looking is too far away…

Robert leans in close. So close Malik can see himself reflected in the man's eyes. The Templar studies the assassin, whose cowl has come loose. His hands let in only enough air to prolong the struggle. With every ounce of strength he has Malik forces himself to look the Templar full-on. His right hand is still outstretched, grabbling. The fighting has torn the sanctuary apart and ruined bits of scaffolding are everywhere.

His fingers touch something wooden. He thinks it's his desperation turning concrete out of pure force of will. A million miles away Kadar yells his name but can't escape his own fight long enough to help.

Robert leans in. Closer. His breath hot and foul on Malik's neck. De Sablé has not aged, not a day. There could be a horsewhip strapped to his side. Shouldn't the desert have melted the ice? Malik reaches again for the piece of wood, fumbling with a gooey hand.

"You," says Robert in surprise. "I know you—"

Malik's left hand _shoves_. The hidden blade buries itself in Robert's cheek and promptly snaps off: the Templar bellows in pain and rears backwards, digging at the metal poking from his cheek, and that's when Malik gets his fingers around the piece of wood and lashes out. The board pushes splinters into his palm but knocks Robert over.

Befogged but triumphant, the assassin staggers to his feet yet again. There is a ringing in his ears and he can't tell which blood is his. He aches, battered and contused, his wounds unstaunched. His head feels swollen from the sword strike, swollen from the lack of air. His throat tastes of molton lead.

Yet Robert is distracted, cursing a steady stream of French as he pries the metal from his face. A lesser man should faint at the loss of so much blood. Robert de Sablé, though, has never flinched at the sight of gore. Malik knows that firsthand. The Templar is an eldritch creature, wearing human meat and using human bones.

Malik turns on unsteady feet. Kadar is still fighting awkwardly and one-armed, holding the Arc crown like it's part of him. "Careful," Malik rasps, too far away to help, his head too filled with sand, his limbs still too shaky to go after his sword. "Careful, Kadar."

The Templar soldier feints left. Kadar sees the trick a moment too late and overbalances in his correction. The crown must weigh down his whole side—ridiculous, but look how gingerly the well-trained assassin fights! Again the soldier jerks left and this time Kadar doesn't fall for it, only swivels on the balls of his feet to hold his position.

Malik finds a wall and leans against it. Robert is still a threat. He needs to be killed now. What a mistake that Malik let him hide. What a barrage of mistakes this fight has been. The King of Swords tries to force his legs to hold his weight—they won't—but he sees a throwing knife at his feet and bends to scoop it up. Every inch of movement is paid with stabbing pain in his chest, his throat, his bleeding arms.

Robert must be killed. Kadar needs his help. That damned chunk of gold. The enormity of the room swallows it up. The Temple priests might have had their reasons to guard it a thousand years ago, but what use is it _now_?

He straightens up, in time to see Robert standing with one hand held to his cheek and one to his sword. In time to see Kadar try a feint of his own that the Templar doesn't follow. One last second while Kadar's arm is raised mid-swing…Malik's in time to see that.

Malik's in time to see the Templar stab his brother, the blade crunching up and through the belly, then out the other side. When the soldier pulls it free it makes such a horrid, messy sound. The chorale of impalement, Malik's in time to hear that.

But he's not in time to do anything about it, and though he throws the knife and though his aim is true, he's helpless as an unarmed child when Kadar, with the shocked, faintly accusing look of any dead man in the gutter, crumples without a word of protest into a blood-soaked heap.


	23. Part Two: Chapter Seven

AN: Can't say too much, except that there's artistic license ahead, and once again you'll know it when you see it. One thing you might notice is Malik's age—he's twenty four here but twenty six when AC1 opens—which I changed only because I didn't want to add more filler to the story just so I could skip a couple years.

* * *

**_Fire into Bone_**

Malik A-Sayf is ten and he makes a promise.

Malik A-Sayf is sixteen and he suffers for it.

Malik A-Sayf is twenty four and he cannot hear himself breathing for the rush of his father's voice in his ears.

He thinks he could scream. He thinks it would not be a human voice but a wolf's high, slick howl. He thinks that there has been a scream nesting in his throat since he was ten and he's only just remembered it now.

It might take him two steps, five, a dozen, to reach Kadar. He doesn't know. Doesn't recall running across the sanctuary. But he's here now, half-crouched, and his little brother is still curled up around the oversized limbs he never really grew into. His rattling breath is very loud.

The Templar who stabbed him is also sitting, groaning with pain from the dagger in his eye. A clear, gelatinous liquid drips from the wound. Malik sees him as if for the first time. Electrical energy rides his frame. By the time his brain decides to attack his body's already done it.

Like a little beast again, only not so little this time. He flattens the soldier against the ground, takes in the man's mewling panic, and then—because the man seems to have no intention of doing so himself—Malik wraps a hand around the throwing knife's stubby hilt and pulls.

It pops out easily. It takes half the eye with it. The rest dangles from the socket in a gush of goo. Malik envies the man his easy screaming, the way he thrashes and retches with no sense of shame, no need to be the strong one. Malik envies him his open fear and the vomit on his chin.

The throwing knife is cutting into his own palm, so he slides it between his fingers and uses it again, as if it were a full-sized dagger. It isn't one, and his fingers weep red, but he stabs the Templar again and again, in the face and throat and fluttering hands, in the full socket of the good eye and the empty socket of the bad, stabbing and stabbing in a haze of blood, except there's no knife in his hand, he must have dropped it, it must have slipped, so instead he punches until his knuckles bruise under the protective lining of his gloves. The Templar's braying turns to groaning and then to involuntary gurgles. Malik keeps punching. He's up to his elbows in gore.

At some point it occurs to him that the body underneath him has stopped jerking, that the face is mostly mush. Malik pulls himself off with an ungainly thump. Now that the soldier has died the sanctuary is very quiet, save Kadar's wheezing, because Malik still hasn't let himself shout. Robert stays across the room, rubbing his cheek and muttering, watching everything but maintaining his distance. Why? Malik remembers the Arc.

He bends over his brother, hands trembling. There, that flash of gold through the dirt: Kadar has curled himself around the crown. "Kadar," Malik croaks, "Hey…" and his brother's eyes open wide around their dilated pupils.

In the back of Malik's rushing mind he hears more footsteps. A den of rats, a den of roaches. They're trapped here in the viper's nest—

Altair has trapped them here—

Panting with exertion and his own body's injuries he scoops his brother into his arms. Kadar's eyes flutter and he sighs. The sword went straight through, so he's bleeding out the front and the back. The back of his tunic sticks to the front of Malik's. But he's still clutching the bulky crown. "Leave it," says Malik, but he doesn't, and there's no time to argue.

More soldiers are coming, which is why Robert lets them go, because the way out is still blocked and the way back is a hard climb up. Malik considers slinging Kadar over his shoulder for as long as it takes to scale the ladder, but the closer he gets to it the louder the encroaching voices are. The echoing makes it hard to tell but Malik has the weight of his brother and no weapons left. He can't fight anyone off now.

There are other archways, filled in with rubble or blocked by scaffolding or hidden in the dark. Malik sees one that's open and runs for it, leaving Robert behind as he plunges into the gloom.

There are stacks of old crates just inside the arch. Besides that the hall looks long abandoned: no torches in the flutes, no footsteps in the dust. The ceiling slants sharply, the ground is laced with mud, and the stone walls are beaded with water. Perhaps there's an underground stream nearby. Perhaps this is a dead end.

Malik kneels and carefully shifts Kadar from his arms to the ground. The younger man is totally silent, except for his strained breathing, his eyes bright in the dark. Robert is shouting at people in the sanctuary proper, bits of Arabic mixed into the French, so Malik goes to the archway and pulls all the crates down. They crash to the ground in a mock-landslide. He keeps kicking the piles over until the entryway is filled almost to the ceiling. It'll take a lot of dredging, a lot of splinters, to make a path again.

He turns back to his brother, sits down with a jolt. Kadar is slumped where he'd been left and Malik tugs his shoulder to pull him into his lap, his head nestled in the crook of Malik's arm. It should be pitch-black but the crown gives off its own chary light, dull and yellow, enough to see by. An impossibility that Malik, in his agitation, ignores.

"Hey," he says. He almost sobs it, but crying is something else he doesn't do. "Kadar. Little brother."

Kadar gazes up at him in bemusement, eyes half-open. Malik watches his chest spasm with every hitched breath, watches the dust settle into his feathery hair. Oh, the two of them, the two assassins! Muddy, bloody, exhausted. Cowering in the dark.

He nudges Kadar's wrist aside with his free arm and pulls the tunic fabric from the puncture. One look and he reels back. To be stabbed in the stomach is…why in the _stomach_? Better to take a sword to the chest or the head, or _any_where else. Not even Al Mualim's healers know much about stomach wounds. Infection sets in slow, but it _always_ sets in, and once it does there's nothing to be done. The great doctors in Baghdad say that by washing open wounds the risk of poisoned blood is less, but the belly confounds them still. How to keep it clean? It turns water to venom.

Kadar is not the first assassin to be gored this way. Malik has seen other men so injured and he's seen them die shrieking for a blessed sip of water. He's seen death take a week, or more: a slow week of stomach acid pouring where it doesn't belong. He's seen the healers try every trick. He doesn't think he's seen any work.

But this is Kadar. This is his brother. And he's a Master Assassin, by rights. That should matter.

"_Ahki,"_ says Kadar, pale lips drawn into an aberrant half-smile. "The Arc."

"Never mind it. Stay quiet, will you? You need to rest, I need to think."

"The…'portan' bit. We still have it." The crown glistens to itself by Kadar's leg. Malik glares at it.

"Never mind, I said. Listen, Kadar, we're going to have to fight our way out of here and I don't have a sword."

("_Allons-y,"_ Robert snarls. "_Dig them out and bring me the Apple!")_

Kadar murmurs and his wound pumps blood. Malik holds him closer. "I'll get us out of here," he says. "We can see where this hall goes. Or I'll find a way to hold them back while we go out the way we came. Ok? So just…so you just stay still. I'll wrap your wound and we'll…"

"Altair," Kadar says. Malik shies from the curse.

"Forget him. What _about_ him?"

"He'll come back. T'help us."

Malik snarls, "Fuck Altair. He's run off like a coward, he isn't coming back. Forget him! We'll save ourselves."

"But he will. He'll come back. Where's he now…?"

"_Ma adhri,"_ he pleads. "I don't _know_ where he is. He's gone! He's abandoned us here but it doesn't matter, we don't _need_ him."

Kadar shakes his head: one slow twist left, one slow twist right. "He'll come back," he says, childish in his confidence. "Not f'me. F'you."

Malik's eyes burn. "Please be quiet. I don't need him. You're going to be fine once I stop the bleeding."

Scrabbling at the barricade. He turns his head to listen.

"Ok," he says, "_Aywa. _Ok. It'll take a while for one of them to break through. Right? And there's plenty of wood. The first one to come, I'll break his skull open and take his sword. With a sword we're fine. I can kill them once I have a sword."

"Uh huh," says Kadar.

"For now we'll wait. It's good to rest. The cut, the cut's so clean I think you should heal quickly." He pulls off Kadar's sash one-handed, scattering ornaments, then bunches it in his fist and holds it against Kadar's stomach. The assassin's uniform looks wrong half-unraveled, but then, Kadar never looked as made for it as others do. He could be a shepherd's boy or a merchant's apprentice; he'd fit just as well in a peasant's rough homespun. Of the A-Sayf brothers it's Malik whose clothing feels vital to his character.

He says, "You're fine. It's deep but not wide."

"Mm."

"Does it hurt badly?"

"No," says Kadar, but shivers, his face contorted. Malik grimaces too. What comes to his mouth is pure babble.

"It's good if it does hurt, it means your body is awake and fighting. You remember the men who go white and quiet, it's shock, they always die soon after. You've seen that."

"I'm cold."

"Well," says Malik, who has sweat stinging his eyes. "Just stay still. Hear them out there, trying to get to us? Think of all the Templars we fought off today. And I'll kill the rest of them soon."

"Cah…careful, Malik. Pro'bly so many."

"It doesn't matter. We still have the Arc. Did you see how careful Robert was around it?"

"Called it th' Apple," Kadar mumbles.

"Fine, the Apple. As long as we have it they'll be hesitant. Don't want to damage it, the idiots. All this for a lump of gold!"

"Do you think-…" Kadar is struggling now, trying to sit up, face flushed hot to the touch. Malik has to hold him down. "Do you think it's worth it?"

"What, the Apple?"

"Th' Apple and…us, and…"

"I don't know what you mean, Kadar. Stop moving."

"Everythin' you always said…I like Altair."

"I know you do. I don't know why you do. You don't have to keep bringing him up."

"You know. And, and I think…th' two of you…he's lost if you won' forgive 'im. He's dang'rous."

"You're really not making any sense. We'll worry about him later. Does it still hurt?" Malik still has his hand clenched around the sash, which is matted and sopping. He isn't sure how hard to press down, but the blood flow has nearly stopped. He becomes aware of his breathing, the rote frippery of _one in, one out, one in, one out_. Behind him a chunk of wood comes crashing down and the voices sound that much louder. But by now Malik is very calm.

"Kadar?" he says. "Does it hurt?"

"Not much. Jus' a…bit."

"That's good."

"Thought you said it…was good if…it did hurt." Kadar tries to grin at Malik's fluster, but chokes instead. A fresh rattle comes from his chest. "'S ok. I trust you."

"_Get through there!"_

Kadar's French has never been strong; he doesn't blink at the intrusion. But Malik does. The Templars are almost through the crates.

"In a minute I'll," he starts to say. But Kadar is talking, has been talking for some moments, in a slurry of words heaped together.

"'S fine," he says, "_Naam._ You'n Altair, you always, the two of you always… _Affwaan, _Brother, I didn't mean it. I unnerstan' it now."

"Kadar?"

His little brother's eyes widen again, in surprise. "D'you hear that?" he asks. "Oh, it's strange."

"What? Hear what? You need to focus, Kadar. Stay alert and you'll be fine. Didn't I tell you that?"

"But don't you hear…?"

"I hear Robert de Sablé!" Malik says. "Keep trusting me. Remember our plan. I'll grab the sword while you rest here, and—"

Kadar smiles at him. "Always wondered…why they move'n packs," he says. "Sounds so eerie, all of them t'gether. They take the sheep an' Father hates 'em but…at least they're in a pack. Too bad you can't hear it."

"Enough, enough, enough." Malik has one ear on the barricade being ripped open and one on his brother's delirium. And in the back is still his mind walking him through the breathing process (_one in, one out, one in, one out_) because to stop would be to die and Malik A-Sayf will not die here.

Another crashing from behind. He tenses.

"Ready? I'll have to put you down for a bit. The movement might hurt. But you're an assassin, right? You can bear it. Everything we've been through, we're the only villagers who survived. Something like this won't stop us. Robert and his idiots think I'm too tired to last. Won't they be surprised? Right? Kadar?"

His little brother has gone very limp. Malik shakes him.

"Hey. I'm _talking_ to you. You have to pay attention for this to work." Malik shifts his weight to prop Kadar into a sitting position. "You're being ridiculous, _again_. Now you faint? Your stomach isn't even bleeding any longer, look." But Kadar can't have fainted, because his eyes are still open. Malik looks into them and sees nothing reflected back. The younger man's head flops back onto his shoulder. His face is white and the edges of his lips are starting to turn blue.

Malik gets angry.

"Stubborn…you are always so stubborn," he yells. "I tell you to do something and you waste a year asking me why! Well, this isn't the time for it. I am telling you to answer me, and—are you listening? I'm your elder brother, you have to listen to me. I _outrank_ you. Damn it! Kadar, now is not the time! Now is…"

Malik finds he has to stop between sentences to catch his breath. He is falling a very long way down, and there is nothing below to catch him.

"I am your brother," he says again. The body sags in his arms, a last embrace, wet and heavy. Malik tastes bile and something else: that aged scream that has been hiding in him all these years, growing mold. "I am your brother," he says a third time, but these are meaningless words.

_(Don't you see?_ _We're all Brothers. You're nothing special any more.)_

Malik's hands are those of an old man, falling into uncontrollable tremors. "Don't you dare make me a liar," he says. "I promised Father. Do you hear me? That was a promise and I _keep_ my promises. You said you trusted me! You liar," he cries, and he's no longer sure who he means. "There was a plan! The two of us, through the desert. We didn't die then, so why should you die now? Kadar!"

The Templars are breaking through.

Malik A-Sayf has lost his entire family. At last.

"_Scum,"_ says a deep voice behind him. "_Did you think your little barrière_ _would hold for long?"_

Malik brings his hands very close to his face and looks at them. These hands have killed many people. The skin is saturated with the blood of twenty years. He no longer wants them.

"_Don't waste time gloating,"_ says Robert from farther off. The Templar leader sounds peculiarly nervous. "_Kill him quickly and find the Apple."_

Now Malik looks at the Apple. Time holds still. His face is wet…tears, he realizes. Old ones. He hasn't cried since he was ten.

The Apple is in his old man's hands now. He doesn't remember pulling it from the base of the crown, but there it is nonetheless. Such a small, round thing. It isn't gold it's made of, he can see from up close, but some sort of metal that's cool to the touch. Deep-set lines crisscross its surface. "Kadar?" he asks, one last time, very soft. But there's no point. Malik has already broken his promise.

He is standing now. Moving away from his little brother's corpse. One step, another step: walking with precision towards the Templars. There are four of them, but they see the look on the assassin's face and fall back. Odd. He is only one man. Malik walks out from underneath the archway and stands in the main sanctuary. The Apple sits in the palm of his left hand. It fits perfectly. It's as heavy as his hidden blade. Heavy as a body.

Is he still only one man?

There are the Templars, bunched together and staring at him. There is wood scattered at his feet but he clutches the Apple instead. It weighs him down.

Soft hands about his shoulders that he isn't sure he sees. They're very white and delicate. No one in Malik's world has hands like those. _Not you,_ says a female voice in his ear. _Release it. It was not meant for you._

The assassin tilts his head. _But I am the one who has it._

_There is not enough of us in your blood. You cannot change your destiny with rage, assassin. Your future lies elsewhere. Release it!_

_My destiny? _Malik smiles grimly. _I've lost mine._

_You do not understand what you hold. It will go badly if you disobey us._

_I broke my promise. I'm not afraid of you. There's nothing left for you to take._

_Not you, not you, not you._

_Who else if not me? Would you give yourself to Altair? Do you think he's so much better?_

Sighs the voice, _you were not meant for this!_

Malik holds up the Apple. The voice is extinguished.

The Templars had been holding back, and they flinch as one person when he holds up the artifact, but when nothing happens embarrassed relief skitters across their faces. Whatever stories Robert told them have not come to pass. One of them decides to advance. "You're dead," he shouts, and charges forward…

Malik moves his hand. The Apple's glow brightens; its surface heats up; he swears he hears it purr. He swears he also sees a figure in white (an assassin?) dart from the ether. That figure is the one to trip the Templar and send him sprawling, to step on his wrist until it cracks and the sword falls from limp fingers.

But no one else sees it. They see only the Templar, staggering to his feet in bewildered horror. They see him try to turn himself around only to spasm forward again, limbs jerking at the joints, every motion stiff and ugly. Every part of him moves separate from the rest: his legs ignore the brain's orders and skitter on their own crooked path. He bends, grunting, red-faced with the failed effort to resist, and his fingers curl around the sword's hilt, and he picks it up.

The other soldiers watch on, amazed and terrified. Even Robert, though he hides it better. No one comes to help.

Malik stares at the Apple as it hums to itself, burning golden in his palm. The room is filled with white figures now. Does no one else realize?

_Illusions,_ says the voice. _Weak minds believe them._

Malik grits his teeth and shakes his head until the voice leaves again. He doesn't want to hear it. Meanwhile the Templar is a man whose body is not his own. A dozen imperceptible hands push and prod him along.

"What is this devilry?" demands Robert. "How are you doing this? What is _it_ telling you?"

The Templar is holding his sword again. He holds it pointed towards the floor, shoulders shaking, fear personified. Every free inch of him pulls back, a rabbit caught in a predator's claws trying to scurry back into its den. He croaks for pity and for mercy.

_Kadar_

Malik twists his wrist again and observes with narrowed eyes as the soldier angles his blade, awkwardly, the bones of his broken wrist bulging, and stabs himself through the gut. His cries echo through the sanctuary but falter quickly. He collapses, still impaled on his sword.

Malik keeps watch. His palm twinges, the slightest bit of discomfort, a pinch that fades as fast as the soldier's moaning. The other Templars draw even closer together, except for Robert, ever the leader who keeps to himself. His mind of ice, working even now. Disgusting.

It's quiet for one moment, and then a second Templar jerks away from the others.

"_God,_" he shrieks. He twists his neck to stare beseechingly at his comrades as he's propelled forward, but no one reaches out to grab him, frozen as they are. One of them is praying loudly, and it's unusual to Malik's ears to hear someone begging Jesus and not Allah for aid. Perhaps they're afraid of contamination. All of Malik is bathed in the Apple's glow and he feels not a drop of compassion. Only the deliciousness of a grudge.

The Templar walks forward with every step a battle. He even manages to rip one hand free from the possession it's under (from the grasp of a ghost assassin) and he tries to yank out his dagger while his mind is still his own. Malik _the Apple _lets him grab it but then has him turn it around in his hand just as the last man did. He cuts his fingers in the process but pain is not enough to break the illusion's hold.

The praying soldier bursts out, "_A demon! He's a demon! Mon Dieu, stop him!"_ Malik is mildly surprised. Both Orders are atheistic ones. Demons and gods and holy artifacts…isn't it all a lot of superstition?

What a silly thing to die for.

With a wretched cry the captured Templar begins to stab himself, his hands forced to work through the agony, his body a lump of clay. The dagger, being smaller, takes longer to do its work when held as a broadsword. Blood flies everywhere, a spray of it reaching across the floor towards Malik. _You must show mercy,_ entreats a new voice. _Dai _Faraj? Other voices pick up the lament, crowding out his old teacher. His father hums _suras_. Baqir gives a bristly laugh. Tens of old victims, Templars, soldiers and spies, talk bitterly of their fate. The feminine inflection he's begun to think of as the Apple's scolds him further for corrupting the orb with his lesser will. It's only when he hears tremulous Kadar that he jerks his head around to look.

Nothing behind him, of course, but tufts of white, the myriad ghost assassins flooding forward to do their work. So many of them. Malik lets himself believe that Kadar is touching his shoulder, beseeching in his prattling way for his brother to drop the Apple and leave. But drop the Apple? The golden orb has wielded itself to his skin, and lower. Malik will not drop it. The ghosts are not real.

He takes a step forward and the glow brightens. Where it touches air flees and he could choke, but he knows he won't. Knows the beauty of the artifact will keep him whole. _Robert_, he dreams, _Robert next,_ but it's the praying soldier who flings himself forward as if in supplication. This soldier clings to the ground, digging his fingers into the dirt, as forces beyond him tug his shoulders and his legs. He squeals and is ushered roughly to his feet.

Robert has to throw himself out of the way. The soldier launches at the other remaining Templar, clawing at him, his comrade's pleas unheard. The fourth man is backed up against the wall by the bewitched soldier's fury. "_Non,"_ moans the Apple's victim, "_L'arrêter, make me stop_!" So the fourth man attempts to do just that, fighting for a moment's space so he can pull out his sword and hack his way free. Malik has heard that in Europe they believe in possessions by Satan. Is that what this is? Whose demon is he now, the Western witch or the Eastern genie?

The twinge is back, higher up his wrist now, lingering a little longer this time before it fades. He ignores it. Something mushy plops onto his boot. He ignores it. There are fresh tears on his face. He ignores them.

The sobbing soldier curls his hands into fists and swings. His victim forgets about his sword in his attempt to protect his face. Robert moves forward as if to pull them apart, but doesn't. It's obvious why: even amid the violence he keeps sneaking glances at the Apple. Maybe he knows how its wielder hungers for his own death. If he runs, if he interferes to save his men or tries to attack, the orb will remember him. Better to let others die while he plots. Malik, feverish, meets his piercing eyes with no sense of anything. "Little animal," he says, to no one.

"_Stop, stop,"_ the Templar cries to his own fists. He's half-crouched over the other man by now, blood sprinkled across his pallid face, and his bleating is annoying in its helplessness. Isn't he a soldier? Isn't this his role? To fight for stupid causes and die for them as well? Malik _the Apple_ lets him exhaust himself on his comrade's body before jerking him back to his feet and dragging him forward.

As the others did he tries to reach for a savior. "_Général!" _But Robert is smart; he will not risk the Apple's wrath just yet. The bodies of the three others testify to that.

The Templar realizes this when his hand hangs ignored in midair. Sniveling, he pulls it to his chest and holds it there; sniveling, he stands exhausted, held up at the shoulders by white flashes he can't see.

Robert ignores him, staring outright at the artifact, and at Malik. On cue Malik's arm aches again, a bit of pressure by his elbow. But the assassin is held in comfort by his weapon. Such a lovely thing. He ought never let it go—

_No, _protests his brother. _ You know this is a mistake._

If Malik's family is dead, why won't they give him peace? Every time he thinks he'll let the Apple's warm glow swallow him up, some phantom gets in his way. He tries to shut them out. He tries to focus. But in the heat of the demons' battle there's a sober part of Malik wondering how any of this is possible and why any of it should be trusted? There's a part of his mind insisting that no personal hurt excuses murder. A hundred familiar voices remind him of the Creed.

He sways on his feet, his throat so dry he coughs trying to swallow. Yet the Apple's lure is strong.

The captured soldier won't stop whining. "_Please,"_ he whimpers, "_Je suis désolé!_ _Non, non...God, no!"_ Malik has him reach for another dropped dagger. The soldier can't do much but watch his body obey. "_Attendez!S'il vous plait, non."_

_You should listen to him,_ says Faraj. _Heed his counsel and mine._

Malik is annoyed. He says out loud, "What counsel can you have? You've been dead for years. And you as well, Father. And you…" He shudders to think of Kadar's white face. Better to look at the Templar. Because Templars are the enemy. Templars believe in controlling others, and killing whoever resists.

Templars do. Not assassins.

"He's killed his friend," Malik reasons. "He should probably want to die."

Faraj says, _That isn't true._ _Who are you? I don't recognize that voice._

"You know who I am," says Malik, but he's not convinced himself. His body hurts, the whole of it, as it tries to rectify his sluggish thoughts.

_I do,_ Kadar says. _I wish you weren't so angry._

"Shut up," he hackles. "You think I don't know this is the Apple's doing? Making me talk to myself? None of you are real."

To steady himself he looks at the soldier, who's very real and close to passing out, his hands and chest still dripping blood, his eyes dripping tears. Maybe the man he killed wasn't just a brother-in-arms. Maybe they were closer. Brothers? Malik thinks, _It would be terrible to kill your brother,_ and in that instant wants to die.

Robert, meanwhile, has been watching Malik mumble. Now he says in a tight voice, "So what is your plan, assassin? You'll kill us all and then what? You won't survive long enough to bring that thing to Masyaf. Look at how it already rots your mind."

The soldier tosses his head. His body is still in the grip of the ghost assassins, and he sags in their grasp, though to him it must feel like witchcraft. "_Maman,"_ he says. "_Please."_

"And look at the rest of you! It's killing you already, don't you feel it? You'll die here along with us if you don't put it down now."

"_Please!"_

"Your traitor of a master told you nothing about the Apple of Eden. And when he learns you've tasted its power he'll kill you himself. If there's anything left of you by then."

"_Je neveux pas mourir_,_"_ says the soldier, trying to unclench his fingers and drop the dagger. "_Aidez-moi, Maman, s'il te plait_." There's a pungent odor as the crotch of his leggings darkens under his tunic. Urine puddles at his feet.

Kadar says, _I think you should stop._

"_Mamaaaan."_

"Doesn't it hurt? Can't you feel that, or are you so far gone? Look, assassin, look at your arm."

_Stop it, Malik._

Malik's hand is numb around the artifact but he won't look. Instead he grips it harder and watches the soldier lift his own hand in answer, watches the dagger's tip near the man's throat, watches his eyes roll back in his head with sheer, swooning terror, watches and watches and Kadar is shouting at him now but Kadar so rarely shouts, so Malik ignores the ghosts because that's all they are, ghouls in his head, scraps of dead things he doesn't need. Robert is still talking to him in that deliberate voice as though he's found the answer, an answer Malik can't accept because the Apple is urging him to see: the sword that scrapes the throat, the scream that lingers years, the orphan who breaks all his promises—

But then there is the Creed—_You can stop now, _Ahke, _it's ok—_and he hasn't broken that—

Malik A-Sayf has never suffered so much. Everything in him is wrecked. But somehow the world hasn't dissolved, somehow there is still a mission. Somehow he must find a way to stay human. In anguish he knows he will never escape he loosens his grip on the Apple.

He wakes up.

The first thing he notices is the smell, a rancid mix of piss and vomit and sweat. Rotted flesh, too, although even in Jerusalem's heat carcasses should take longer to decompose. Then he sees the bodies, especially the newest ones in their mangled positions of forced suicide. The sanctuary doesn't feel large enough. Solomon's Temple is overflowing with fresh sacrifices. The Apple is still in Malik's hand and so the surviving soldier is still trapped a few steps away, but when the assassin looks at him now he's struck by his age. With his bare chin and pimples he looks so young! Far too young to be one of Robert de Sablé's elite Knights Templars.

What propaganda led him to the Crusades? The same uplifting slogans Al Mualim feeds lost orphan boys? What father or cousin or friend did he so idolize that he followed their armies here? France is a long way from Jerusalem. But Malik understands at last that distance doesn't matter. A farming village or Damascus, it's all the same and there is no escape. No matter how far one travels, the world is always confined by black lines on a map. For some people there is no free space, no welcome, no safe and stable home: only cracks in the Earth to be clawed out of again and again.

Malik is one of those people. Maybe this boy is one, too.

The time is fast approaching when Malik will have to let go of the artifact. Though he's shaken its grip on his thoughts he still longs for the peace of that golden glow. The surrender had been _nice_. Awake, Malik recognizes that mindless bloodshed solves nothing. But asleep he understood the frothing passions of a rioting mob.

The boy soldier slumps in a subservient way, the demented gleam in his eyes suggesting he's been pushed past the limits of normal endurance. With the orb's weakening he lowers the dagger from his throat but it's still in his hand. Malik peels his fingers from the Apple, letting it drop. It hits the ground hard but doesn't roll.

The soldier's legs can't hold him; he collapses and jerks away from the dagger with heaving revulsion. Then he scuttles backwards on his hands and knees. He reaches the wall and curls up, not far from the body of the man he's killed, where he sits almost catatonic with fear. Robert goes to him, kneels and puts a hand on his quivering shoulder, but says nothing. Instead he looks to Malik as if he's waiting for something. And he doesn't have to wait long.

The first pain is so minor Malik almost misses it. He's still too distracted by the mystery of the Apple, confused at its heavy landing.

But the pain comes back. And it isn't minor. And this time it doesn't fade away.

He's been stabbed, is what the King of Swords first thinks: stabbed in the left shoulder, the hurt of it only now showing through the adrenalin of battle. But the pain isn't only in his shoulder, it's lower as well, reaching all along his arm, _crawling_…

"Look at your arm," Robert says. Finally Malik pulls up his sleeve.

"Ah," he says. Not comprehending. This isn't his limb. This bloated slab of dead meat stuck to his body can't be _his_. But it _is_, and that smell, that sweetish taint of putrid flesh, it's been coming from him all along. He steps backwards in disbelief, but the smell follows because the arm follows because the arm is his and it's destroyed.

"Ahhh," he says again, and doubles over, sick to his stomach with the sight of the thing. His gloves and leather wrist gauntlets are gone. Did they _dissolve_?

The very top of his shoulder still shows normal, brown skin, but below that the rest of the shoulder is marked with bright red welts, as if some animal dug in with its claws. The welts continue down, growing fatter and darker, until by just above his elbow everything is red and swollen. Below the elbow the red blemishes melt into the purple-green of a bruise. The skin here is soft and sticky to the touch, shiny-rotten like spoiled fruit. With his good hand Malik touches it and a piece comes away stuck to his finger. Underneath the muscle is rancid to the bone.

Malik gags. The pain is cresting like a wave: it's horrid now but he's still only in the shallows. The deepest swells are farther out.

With a terrible curiosity he follows the blotchy patterns down. Here, at his wrist, are the first signs of bone. His palm is caved in and the remaining skin is black. But there isn't any blood…from his shoulder down there is no blood, though boils pop in the crooks between his fingers.

The very tips of his fingers are skeletal. He remembers the plop of something onto his boots.

"God," he says, straining to hear, but without the orb the voices are gone. God, the ache. The agony festering like his flesh. His voice is as shredded as the rest of him, or else he might finally scream. But it's absolute, this desiccation.

(How will he solve this? Kadar is dead and there is no healer in the world who could fix his arm. It'll be cut off if it doesn't fall off first—he swallows acid like shards of glass—alone and crippled, because he wasn't strong enough, wasn't smart enough. He wobbles on his legs. Exhaustion, or something worse? It begins to sink in that he will have to learn to keep his balance again, that he will be like a novice tottering along the eaves. That he is no longer a true assassin but a damaged one, pitied and put aside. While Altair runs ahead.

The Templar took his brother, the Apple his arm. But it's Altair Malik despises.)

The wave foams and surges but never crests. In the hellish heat of the sanctuary he confuses the physical torment for the emotional, and both begin to taste of sand. The muscles he has sculpted are the color of mud and falling to clumps. He will go crazy with the torture of this wound, he will lose his mind.

And as Malik is telling himself that he's bending down to grab the Apple with his good hand, he's dropping it into a pouch on his belt, he's moving towards the ladder, and the exit. Even as he tells himself he wants to drown he swims.

Why swim in a desert? Why struggle now, when everything's lost?

The King of Swords has to give himself an answer or else he won't be able to take another step. The pain of his arm will rupture his mind. So he looks at Robert de Sablé, and remembers hate. He can't die until Altair suffers. No matter how bad his injuries. He can't acknowledge his despair until he knows Altair is despairing, too.

Because they are Brothers. Because they are alike.

One hand on the ladder. He will have to haul himself up somehow. Behind him, Robert follows after, but keeps his distance. All Malik has to do is reach for the Apple and the Templar will jerk back.

"Did you forget the other one?" Robert asks. "You'll leave his corpse here to decay?" Malik looks at him, wordless. "You can't carry both it and him. As injured as you are, the desert will kill you quickly."

"It won't," says Malik.

"Don't trust the Piece of Eden to keep you alive. Its trickery won't protect you against an army. It won't give you water and it won't heal the infection. Go back to your nest, assassin. Leave the Apple here, so you can tend to yourself and your dead."

"My brother's gone." Malik repeats the words in his head after he says them, marveling at their sound. Robert starts to bluster but he says, calmly, "Kadar's gone and I won't die. Not until after the vultures have taken you apart." He puts his hand back on the old ladder, grateful for solid things.

"If you mean to kill me, you're going the wrong way." De Sablé looks more frustrated the further Malik takes the artifact. "Assassin! Leaving your brother behind while you flee like a coward!"

"Al Mualim wants the Arc. It was our mission. I have to…"

"Coward."

"Yes." Malik's lips stretch into a smile. A wolf's smile, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue. Seeing it, the cringing soldier moans. "But it isn't a surprise. All I've ever been is Altair's shadow…but you'll die soon and slow, Templar. You both will."

The Crusader sneers. "Confident words for a cripple."

Malik considers. "Not confidence," he says, as he begins the tortuous task of pulling his battered body up the ladder with one hand. Balance is an issue, and weight. Already he is clumsy. Already the years of training are gone.

Robert lunges as if to grab his precious artifact while the assassin is distracted, but the soldier moans again and the general pulls himself to a stop. Even he can't bring himself to leave his men behind.

Malik reaches the landing, so overwhelmed with pain it doesn't fully register, and looks down on the sanctuary. On Robert, the boy soldier, the bodies. Except that Kadar is out of sight, in the tunnel where he'd been left.

He laughs a bit, a laugh that turns broken fast, until it isn't a laugh at all but a senseless keening. So unexpected is the sound, so crazed and endless, that the soldier claps his hands over his ears. Malik isn't bothered. There is fire licking at his arm and lapping at the backs of his eyes.

"Not confidence," he repeats. "A promise."

_-i-_

Eventually Solomon's Temple ends, eventually there is sunlight and the city proper and a waiting horse. Eventually there is the desert, purring like the Apple with heat. Eventually Malik pulls his sleeve over the putrefying thing that was his arm and rides hard, knowing Robert will be following with all his men. Eventually he gets used to his smell and the looks the other assassins give him when he gallops through the gates of Masyaf. Eventually there is a battle and a reckoning. He divides himself up and shuts the bits away.

Eventually.

* * *

AN: Chapter title is taken from a phrase out of one of Gibran's poems. The actual phrase is, 'I stir fire into the bones of the dead.'

I have a whole theory on Malik and the Apple. Just as in my fanon he has enough of the OWCB in him to use eagle vision, but not very well, here he has enough to use the Apple. Just…not very well. It consumes him but not forever; he's not taken with it like Altair. But at the same time, he can't control it as well. He and Altair are both stubborn but in different ways: Malik can't lie to himself long enough to stay obsessed, and he can't lower his walls long enough to experience everything this Piece of Eden has to give. So he uses it, and it does its work, but there are consequences. And he'll never trust it.

Plus I so didn't want to write more stabbing. Much prefer flesh-eating and ooze!

Epilogue is next.


	24. Epilogue

AN: Pre-humbled Altair is emotionally stunted, which when I write him seems to come off as distracted babble. He's not _trying_ to be a jerk. It's just that no one's ever explained to him that normal people get sad.

So. The last chapter. I do think there will be a sequel. I'm playing AC3 now, although I was delayed a bit thanks to Sandy, and the new game really reminds me why I love this series and these characters and this fandom so much. This whole story, but especially the last few chapters, was written to a delightful mash of Jesper Kyd, Austin Wintory, and Linkin Park. That music, and also _skywalker05_'s patient beta-ing, is what got this monster finished.

And the reviews. The reviews helped more than I can say.

Chapter title is taken from the poem "Cold Ashes," by Nima Yushij, translated from the Persian by Mahmud Kinaush. Quote is from a Silversun Pickups song.

* * *

_Epilogue _

**_A Story of Long Sufferings _**

"Remember when I played assassin,  
Remember when my joking turned grim…  
Is it perfect in our little hell?  
Are you dancing, or stumbling beside me?"

It isn't the worst wound he has suffered in his life. But it lingers longer than it should, and he feels it as he storms up the narrow staircase. An ache below his breastbone, though when he runs his hand across he finds nothing wrong. It was a trick, somehow. It hadn't been real. But he feels it anyway, and maybe that makes it real after all.

Altair does not let himself dwell. Not now.

The fortress is unusually quiet tonight. He sees no one as he climbs the stairs. Altair knows that's because so many men are still in the village, trying to set it in order after yesterday's attack. There are many buildings that need to be rebuilt and many bodies that need to be buried, although unfortunately Robert de Sablé's is not one of them. Somehow the Templar leader escaped the log trap and slipped through the village's front gate, where the guard was decimated by the initial assault.

Altair knows where his Brothers are. Still he wonders if they aren't avoiding him, even more than they usually do. No one has come up to him, after all: no novices scampering in his wake, awed at his skills, grateful for his rescue. Despite being tired by the ride from Jerusalem he had fought well and done his share of slaughter. Certainly he'd killed more than the _others_, those weak assassins sullying the name. He'd been ferocious! But where are the novices to fawn over his achievements?

Kadar usually leads the novices.

Altair does not let himself dwell.

His chest aches again. He turns a cold eye towards it, stone-faced. Nothing makes any sense to the Son of None, not the mission or its outcome or the Master's fury. Not the wound. To lose to Templars? To return to Masyaf in disgrace?

He bristles as he climbs, chagrined by the lingering stench of failure that he thinks must cling to his hands. Surely by fending off the Templars' assault on Masyaf he has regained whatever honor might have been lost in Solomon's Temple. Was he not the one to follow after Rauf and set the logs free? Was it not because of him that Robert fled like a coward?

Master Al Mualim didn't agree. He'd been angry, putting the attack on Altair's head, cursing him for a traitor and a fool, and all over a gold ball. A gold ball that wasn't even lost. In the end Malik brought it to Masyaf, so why—

Careful. He won't think of Malik. Not yet.

He thinks instead of the knife in the Master's hands. It was the same one that took his finger, he's sure of it. The same one that marked him as a Master Assassin. And yet, this time, when the Master plunged it into him, it left no mark. Only a biting pain that consumed him whole, swallowing his demands for answers. He woke up in his quarters, alone, with no blood and no stab wound, his head cloudy as if he'd been drugged. His weapons were missing, and he felt light without them, as though he might float off the ground without the weight of his hidden blade.

His room had been neatly ransacked and all his extra knives and daggers removed. A mystery that deepened as he flung open his door and stalked past the guards.

_And why was his room guarded_?

Those men had smirked. He'd seen them do it, those coward-weakling-spoiled men, his supposed Brothers, the filth. How they'd smirked to tell him of his dishonor! _Novice_, they'd called him. That hated word. Hated because it wasn't true. Hated because it was Malik's preferred term of endearment, and how dare they use it in his stead.

But they'd used it, and they hadn't balked in the face of his ire. Had only laughed. It's been years since anyone dared laugh at Altair to his face, because it's been years since fear hasn't cowed their jealousy. Where was that fear now? Those guards, jeering at a Master Assassin. Telling him he _wasn't_ a Master Assassin, that Al Mualim had stripped him of his rank and all the weapons it allowed.

Telling him that all the Order had heard how he failed. How he ran. How he let other men suffer. How he let his _best friend_ suffer, the man he was closest to, the only man willing to call him comrade and mean it. That poor bastard, he ignored all the warnings and here was his reward, staggering into Masyaf half out of his mind with pain, grieving and alone, and had Altair yet seen his _arm_?

("_Where are Malik and Kadar?")_

No.

"He should have known better," the guards told Altair. "Your mother was a Christian whore. He's strong. You're just a mutt."

Altair leapt for them, driven to violence in his confusion, the world around him a fever he couldn't shake. They'd flinched, because they were cowards, but they'd warned him off before he could land a punch to one of their sneering mouths.

"One more mistake," they said, "and you're dead. Al Mualim will kill you himself as a traitor."

It didn't make sense. He was Altair. Is he still Altair?

He pauses now, on the top of the stairs, to consider. When he looks at his hands he thinks he sees himself. The scars are familiar. But when he'd left the guards cackling at his back to confront the Master, to prove their lies so he could break their jaws with confidence, the fever had only worsened. The men guarding the main hall wouldn't even let him inside.

"Turn back, novice," they said. "Only high-ranked assassins may enter here at whim. Master Al Mualim will send for you when he feels the need."

"I am his favored assassin, and I demand to see him. Stand aside and let me through."

It had been a mistake to say that. "Favored assassin?" one of them asked. "Is that what you think you are? You _were_ his favored assassin. Another brought him the artifact and other journeymen will offer their fingers. You aren't anything to him."

He'd raged at them then, he'd cursed long and loud, he'd threatened. They'd impassively ignored him, and he was rendered a loud-mouthed fool, some madman come up from the village to babble. Soon they'd send for his minder to take him away.

But it doesn't matter. Not the guards and not their mockery. Not the massive window on the second floor, by the Master's library. Not the Master himself, standing by that window. It doesn't matter that Altair looked up and saw him there, and knew that Al Mualim had heard everything and agreed. The rejection doesn't bother him. He's the Son of None and it's fine.

It doesn't matter and he doesn't care, because Malik…

He comes to the end of the hallway and turns left, feeling better now in some indefinable way. The fever will be broken once he sees Malik again.

Yes, the guards had been happy to tell him of the other man's bizarre injuries, his arm lacerated and rotten, the hand missing a finger already. Malik wouldn't say how it had happened.

And, yes, the guards were delighted to tell Altair that Kadar was dead, left behind in the Temple by an older brother whose eyes no one could recognize. They wondered what Malik had done in that place to survive. They said his good hand shook with an old man's palsy. Hadn't Altair noticed that himself, they wanted to know. Did he felt nothing when confronted with the horrors of his crimes? To which demon had he sold his heart?

(Hadn't he noticed the arm? No, Malik kept it covered. Hadn't he noticed the eyes? No, Malik wouldn't look at him. Hadn't he noticed the man, wretched and brokenhearted? And if he had, what did they expect him to say?)

It doesn't _matter_. What is one arm? What is one brother? What is anything but the two of them? Never mind the quarreling, the betrayals. Altair sees his mistake, picking fights before the mission, and if this surreal, scoffing Brotherhood is his punishment, then that is fine. He accepts it.

But the idea of Kadar still makes him uncomfortable. Altair hadn't wished for his death, is more or less sad to hear of the loss. Although he doesn't have much of a reference for sad.

Altair definitely never wished for Malik to be unhappy, and he decides that he personally will put Robert's head on a pike, and give it to Malik as a gift. It could take the other man some time to regain his strength, so Altair will get revenge for him. Perhaps he might even bring the Templar alive to Malik, so that the King of Swords can practice stabbing people one-handedly and then keep Robert's ears as a memento.

That will surely be enough.

So he and Malik will go together to Al Mualim and demand his rank be restored. With his honor intact, the other assassins will beg forgiveness. He looks forward to the groveling almost as much as he looks forward to kicking the shit out of them. Malik will be just as strong a fighter without an arm as with, and now that he doesn't have Kadar there's nothing to hold him back. Nothing to get in the way.

Malik's voice will break the fever…

Altair clenches a nervous fist.

("_I still live, at least.")_

"The two of us will change everything," he says out loud, to reassure himself. He is not a half-breed. He is an assassin. He is stronger than the deaths of other men.

Malik might mourn his arm, might mourn Kadar, and that's perfectly reasonable. That he said such terrible things in front of Al Mualim can be forgiven. Altair can allow him his sorrow. The Son of None is magnanimous in his understanding, because sorrow fades but Malik is his protection and his comfort forever.

They are too close for separation. Altair knows him as well as he knows himself, has marked him below the skin. Those dark eyes, that slow, sarcastic smile, the twitch of his fingers and the taste of his mouth and how he arches his back when Altair fucks him, how he chokes down his moaning and curses instead…

What need of fathers or brothers or Masters or friends? Malik is enough.

"It was not my fault," Altair will say to him. "I tried to get back but the rockslide blocked the archway. You saw that. I didn't intend for you to be injured or your brother to die. It was Robert," he'll say, and because Malik is reasonable Malik will understand. "I will kill him for you. I'll pull you after me if I must."

It will work. Malik will calm down. It'll be easier once Altair's rank is restored, as will surely happen quickly. He's too skilled to play these stupid guilt-games, Al Mualim and Malik will both realize that. Though it burns to know he failed, the artifact was retrieved. Malik had held it aloft and said, "I found what your favorite failed to find." Altair squints, recalling the words cracking into shrieks at the ends, the finger jabbing at him like a curse: _you_ didn't listen, _you_ lost the artifact, _you_ let Kadar die.

Malik has never sounded quite so shrill and hateful as he did then.

But Malik isn't, can't be, bitter. He's too smart for that. No common Abbas-journeyman, he! Altair was wrong to call him jealous before, that much he can admit. "I confess my error," he wants to announce. "Isn't that what you want? For me to be humble? For you I confess it, be satisfied and move on! What else can I give you but Robert's head? If Kadar could be brought back—"

If then, what? Kadar, in the way. Kadar, Malik's first choice. But Kadar is the dearest thing to Malik, who is the only person besides Al Mualim worth anything to Altair. If then…but it isn't possible. Altair knows how to spill blood, not how to put it back.

And he's never trusted words. "You are alive," he could say, "You lived though I thought you were dead." But to continue, to mention his own ride through the desert…Malik might not believe the stress. Might not accept it. Altair himself hadn't accepted it. He told Al Mualim the A-Sayf brothers were dead, but the words were dull and he felt nothing saying them. Not because he sold his heart. Because they made no sense and he only said them to speed the reunion along. Malik's arrival was not a surprise, though the Temple was overrun and even Altair couldn't sneak back inside.

("_All of this could have been avoided!")_

After all, Altair claims him.

("_You would not heed my warning!")_

Needs him.

(_"My brother is dead because of you.")_

And all of this will end.

He realizes that he has been standing at the entrance to the healers' hall for five minutes or more, mumbling to himself, dredging the past in search of the future. Shameful, for an assassin to hesitate. He has no reason to doubt: Malik will forgive and the Master will see his point's been made and Altair will return to highest rank.

No reason to fear what he'll find in the healers' quarters. Malik A-Sayf is healthy, is already healing. It won't even be noticeable.

Unused to this mental bedlam, Altair searches for solid ground.

_-i-_

The door he wants is guarded. Abbas stands there with arms folded, talking to Rauf, who's lugging a pot of water with both hands. When Altair steps towards them Rauf jumps and nearly drops it, but Abbas only angles himself forward with unashamed eagerness.

"Altair," says Rauf, sounding nervous. "Safety and peace, Brother. It's, um. It's good that you've survived. The whole Order was shocked when we heard…such a tragedy…"

Abbas interrupts. "What do you want? Novice assassins shouldn't roam the fortress alone."

Altair ignores him and asks Rauf, "Is Malik in there?"

The man's face falls. "Um. Well, he's…"

"Is he inside or not?"

"He's there," says Abbas. "The healers are removing his arm, as I'm sure you've heard. And I am standing guard."

"I'm not concerned with what you're doing."

"But you're concerned with Malik? A little late, don't you think? Or did you come to take off the arm yourself? You have a knack for causing others misery."

"Stand aside. I need to speak with him."

"You can't," says Rauf, with surprising firmness. "Not now. The healers were clear that no one should be allowed in. The infection is bad and they can't be distracted."

"It's not them I need to see."

Abbas says, "You need to see no one, and no one needs to see you."

"Don't take offense, Altair. He's not well enough for any visitors. If the infection gets much worse, he could…he could still-…"

"He won't," says Altair, sharply. Rauf drops his eyes and Abbas hackles.

"Listen to you! Is that why you abandoned him in Jerusalem? Because you knew he wouldn't die? Too bad you didn't know that about Kadar as well, but _his_ death mustn't matter to you." He nods at the closed door. "It matters to him. You should have heard the things he said before the healers calmed him down."

"Abbas…" Rauf says, tense now. "Altair, please, come back later."

"I only need to see him for a moment," Altair says. Only a moment and the fever will break. "He will want to see me."

"He doesn't want to see you," Abbas shouts. "A thousand curses on your head! Malik's paid enough, this is his punishment for your corruption."

"What punishment? I didn't come to listen to your ravings."

Abbas sneers. "I know why you came. And I'm telling you that it's over. Open your eyes, infidel. He's no longer your _catamite_. At last Allah has made him see."

Altair's eyes widen, and words fail to come. Such treacherous things they are. It's a startled Rauf who puts an end to it, barking for them both to shut up, while a hundred different insults die strangled on Altair's tongue.

Rauf says, with another wide-eyed glance at Abbas, "After all that's happened, you'd still fight? There's enough misery in this place already! We don't even have a body to bury…" He shakes his head. "You need to leave, Altair. I know Malik was your, uh, your _friend_. But he's not well enough to talk to you, and frankly I think it's for the best. Give him some time. Deal with your own problems." To Abbas he says, "I need to get this water to them." Abbas opens the door and Rauf slips in without glancing back. The door shuts again before Altair has a chance to look inside.

He stands glaring at Abbas, who taps a finger to the side of his mouth. "I have to admit I wondered why you left him," the guardsman says. "If it were only Kadar it wouldn't be a shock, but I figured you would want to keep your slut alive." He sighs. "Such a shame. I warned him."

"Don't call him that."

"He's called you worse." Abbas muses, "I do believe he wants to kill you."

"I never abandoned him or Kadar. We were separated and there was a rockslide. The shouting ended…if I'd thought Malik had survived I wouldn't have left."

"Even Master Al Mualim doesn't believe you. I've always known you were a traitor but now others are beginning to understand."

"I am no traitor," Altair says, echoing himself, infuriated but unable to describe it. He'd said as much to Al Mualim yesterday, and had been stabbed as a result. Only Malik has ever listened to him and really heard.

"Do you know what I think? I think," and Abbas lifts his voice into a song, "I think you were relieved for the excuse to ride back alone. Even if you'd failed. I think you were happy to have outlasted the competition."

"Be quiet."

"Oh, you have all your pretty excuses, oh yes, but Allah knows you, Altair! He knows how you really think. How empty you are."

"No," says Altair, and what he hears is, _I found what your favorite failed to find…_

"Malik must have been a little too skilled for your liking, you didn't look so impressive next to him. Cunning plan, Brother! First you debase him and when that doesn't work you cripple him. He won't rival you after this, not with one arm. Maybe you've come to embarrass him further, to make sure."

Violence has always felt so much more natural than words. The Son of None chooses then to luxuriate in the punch he's held in for two days, in the sight of Abbas lurching down the hallway with a bloody mouth. Altair hits him again and cracks his knuckles, then pulls Abbas up by the collar and shoves him against the wall.

"You can't," Abbas croaks. "You're a novice now. You can't attack your superiors!"

"My true rank will be restored. And even if it weren't…" Altair knows the Brotherhood thinks him feral. Only Malik treats him as though he were any other man: refreshing, at points, but also infuriating. Altair _is_ feral. More so now than before.

"Even if my rank was taken, do you think my skills were taken with it? Do you think you can stand against me?" He pushes Abbas away and spreads his arms wide. "Come on, then. You with all your weapons against me with none of mine. If you think you can win."

Abbas stares at him. Altair waits a moment, smirks, and heads for the door. He pushes it open with the guardsman trailing his heels, but that doesn't matter. The insults of the Brotherhood can be buried in the same pit as the loss of limbs and family. He will drag Malik through this, because Malik is strong but he is _stronger_.

And he will not dwell.

The Son of None enters the room a soldier ready for war.

_-i- -i- _

At first Malik doesn't bother to look when the door to the healer's room opens. People have been coming in and out since he was brought here: healers and Rauf with bandages and water, solemn Raed bringing condolences from other assassins. The healers are annoyed with the interruptions and chase Raed off before he can say much, which is a relief. Malik saved Raed's family once, and the other man is only a reminder that he's failed to save his own.

They think him out of his mind with fever, but they're wrong. Malik has never been so sober. His memories chase him when he sleeps so he stays awake, though the healers want to douse him with sleeping agents to numb the pain they say must be unbearable.

It is, but Malik bears it. Wrapped in agony like a swaddled child he endures their fussing and deliberation, their prodding about the dead flesh. They try to find a way to save the arm though everyone knows it's hopeless, and Malik doesn't have the words to explain how he doesn't care. He's no attachment to the carious thing. It isn't his arm anymore, just as Kadar isn't his brother.

Finally, with heavy sighs, the healers consult Al Mualim and agree to the amputation. A shame, they say, because Malik was such a skilled fighter. A loss for the Brotherhood. "What was Kadar, then?" Malik asks, but they tell him to hush.

When he groans Rauf kneels at his bedside and tries to smile. On the other side of the bed an unfamiliar man is pulling out an unfamiliar-looking knife, rounded and fat, the blade running far up the edge. The steel handle loops for an easier grip. Malik stares at the weapon first, then the man. The bone-saw doctor could be an _imam_ with his bushy beard, and he speaks with a thick Baghdad accent, but he never speaks to Malik directly.

"The _hashish _now," he says to one of the healers.

"No," says Malik, chest heaving. They aren't listening to him so he tries to sit up, Rauf pushing him down by the good shoulder. "_No,_" he says again, louder. "I don't want it. No drugs."

The surgeon dismisses him with a shake of the head. "He's delirious. To be awake for this would kill him."

"It won't," says Malik, "Listen to me, I won't take the _hashish,_ I don't _want_ it."

"Malik, be reasonable," begs Rauf. "It'll help with the pain, and anyway you have to stay still!"

"I tell you I don't want it. I'm not delirious—Rauf, get off! I don't want to take anything. Just cut the damn thing off."

The bone-doctor mutters, "You assassins are all crazy." But Malik only flattens himself against the bed and closes his eyes against fresh tears.

_Here, Kadar,_ he thinks,_ here is my penitence, here, all for you. Don't you see it?_

"More water," says the doctor to Rauf. "And clean cloth for the mess."

Rauf runs for the door. "_Echh_, the stench of it," a healer comments. Malik is lost in his repentance and scarcely hears him.

So when the door opens he assumes it is Rauf back with the water and doesn't look. Allah Almighty, it hurts to lay there, hurts with incessant rhythm. He is drenched with sweat and shivering, which brings to mind his own warnings of shock. But he thinks he feels the damn blood in his veins, beaded like pebbles under his skin: he's too aware for this to be shock. Unless even in his dying moments Malik is to be allowed no rest.

Rauf is back by the bed but the door opens and proves him correct. His rest has been forbidden him. At Rauf's sharp intake of breath he forces his eyes up and sees Altair.

"Who is this?" the bone doctor asks crossly. "All these disruptions will make the wound worse, you know. They'll throw the body's humors out of line."

Malik stares.

Altair says, "They told me you were in here," and stops, sounding dumb. He looks startled by the sight of the arm spread out on the bed, fluids dampening the sheets. He isn't wearing any weapons, there are some superficial cuts on his face, and dark circles line his eyes. He looks disgusted. He looks the same.

He rallies himself after a moment of that screeching silence. His eyes waver before he can force them still. "I'm sure your hurt isn't as bad as they say."

Abbas careens into the room behind the Son of None. "I told him to stay out," he says over the doctor's protests. "The maniac wouldn't listen!"

"Some guard you are," groans Rauf. "Listen, Altair, really, come back…"

"No," says Malik, and everyone falls silent. "No, no, no," and he can't control the discordance in his voice, he can't stop himself from half-shouting until the word sounds false. "No, _don't_ come back," and the pain that has been building bursts. When he cries out Altair's lips thin, enough to be a balm.

When he can breathe again he snarls, "Who let him in?"

"I wanted to see you," Altair says. "Because you—"

"Because! Because _what_?" Malik bellows. "You have a nerve to come here after…"

"Calm down," says Rauf. "Altair, go away."

"My brother is dead. Kadar is dead and you are the one who killed him!" He breaks free from Rauf's anxious grasp and pushes himself to a sitting position, ignoring the warning complaints of the bone-doctor, ignoring the answering spurt of pain and blood from his arm, ignoring everything but the look on the Son of None's face: ashen, and alarmed.

"You should have been the one to die. Not Kadar. He did _nothing_ to deserve—you were so damned arrogant you didn't realize what you were walking into. You were blind! And then you left us there to pay for your mistakes. You are a pompous idiot and you should have _died_!"

Malik fights for breath. Agony crashes in waves against his shoulder, spiking through his body and threatening to drag him below the surface of consciousness. But the injured man resists. Tears press against the backs of his eyes but he does not let them show.

"Malik," Altair starts to say.

"_Askut_! Get out of here, _Master Assassin._ Your presence is making me _nauseous_."

Malik peers out from behind a body that isn't his, trapped behind the sludge of betrayal like an insect caught in amber. Something not human slithers beneath his skin. A demon closes sharp claws over his mouth and eyes and throat. Malik feels this happening and does not try to fight it.

"You told me once that I should keep something for my own self. Don't you remember?" He sneers through his heartbreak, his rage, sneers because if he loses his anger he will be murdered by this grief, he will drown. He sneers to see the glimpses of real pain in Altair's eyes: Altair, who never had learned how to express his emotions. Maybe he's struggling in the same way with his guilt.

Good. Let him choke on it.

"So I am keeping what little you've left me," Malik says, his voice a needle, "And I am removing what little you offer." Everything else…his brother, his arm, his talents and his future…everything has been taken from him, except for Altair. And Altair, at least, is something Malik A-Sayf can reject on his own.

"You are an utter waste. If it had been you to die in Jerusalem no one would have cared. No one would remember."

"Listen to me, Malik…"

"No," he hisses. "Not any more. Get out of here, Altair the Son of No One. Get out of here and _rot_."

He stops, pants for air. Altair is still staring. Malik needs him to _go_.

(If he stays Malik will lose his will. If he stays Malik will latch out with desperation for the one thing he still has left, and be punished forever for his frailty, and lose what remaining strength he has.)

Altair is still lingering, and that is intolerable. The demon that was Malik strikes.

"You half-breed bastard," he spits, and oh, it tastes so foul, those words in his mouth. Oh, to stab sharp knives into a weeping sore.

Altair's shoulders jerk.

"That's what you've always been," Malik says, "an unwanted baby with curdled blood, tainted from the start. All your unnatural lusts are…you're disgusting. An aberration, that's all you are, a _mistake_. I hope you die a miserable death in the gutter, like the mongrel you are. I hope I'm there to see it."

(If he stays…!)

Altair looks at Malik, wordless, swallowing hard. "Can't you see you aren't wanted?" Abbas demands from the doorway. "_Allah yela'an ya_, Altair."

The Son of None ignores him as ever, ignores the eyes of everyone else in the room save for Malik's. He seems about to say something; Malik waits to hear it. But the moment fades before it can begin. Altair lets his cowl fall low over his eyes. He does not apologize, he does not argue.

He turns on his heel and leaves.

Malik lets the hated wash over him afresh. That bastard, that whore's son, that hateful killer who has carved all that was human from his wasted frame. Abbas is smirking as if he's won a victory, Rauf leans over the bed in abject worry, the bone-doctor is muttering about distractions and poisoned blood as he presses the sharp edge of his blade to the tainted meat of Malik's shoulder.

(Malik can't know it, but this is the last time he will see Altair for two years. In suffering he will recuperate and then be moved to Jerusalem as _Dai_, a cripple now with a cripple's post for all its supposed honor, but still he will be glad for the change. Glad to escape all those pitying eyes. Glad for the Jerusalem bureau's dark corners and dusty rooms, where he can sit and linger and loathe. Altair, meanwhile, will have his own burdens. He will go off to salvage his name, and when he does enter Jerusalem they will both be different men.

There is more yet for them to say. But it will be flecked with loss like worms.)

"It's good that he's gone," says Abbas. "What a traitor he is." And he goes out again.

"Keep him still," says the bone-doctor.

The door slams shut. The saw presses down. Malik throws back his head and howls.

**_End  
_**_(Thanks!)_


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